


An Evil Cradling

by theeventualwinner



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Balrogs, Blood, Body Horror, Gen, Gore, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Orcs, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, basically Maedhros just having a hell of a bad time of it in every way possible, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 124,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series following Maedhros through his times in Angband, in all of their dark, twisted, visceral unpleasantries; from his initial capture to his torment upon the Thangorodrim. Certainly not a fluffy fic. Heed the tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood-Tithe

_“This is a mistake.”_

Celegorm’s terse words whispered not hours before flitted through Maedhros’ mind, but grimly he steeled his will against them. They were not meant for his ears. Alone within the royal tent hastily erected upon Mithrim’s roaming plains he had been readying himself for his departure, yet the woven banners strung about the wide walls were not enough to dampen those ill-fated words. Hard and fast Celegorm spoke them to Maglor, the princes thought themselves concealed from casual overhearing by the thick swaddling of canvas, yet the words had still stolen to Maedhros’ ears. 

Over the parchment map staked to the grand table before him Maedhros glanced, his hazel eyes wandered to the three inked spires that marked the dread Thangorodrim, the infernal mountains that reared their smoking heads above Morgoth’s stronghold, and the thorns of doubt pricked only deeper into his heart. 

“This is nothing more than a feint,” Celegorm had whispered, he had implored Maglor to see reason even as the final preparations for Maedhros’ leave-taking were made. “This is a game of daggers and mirrors, and we cannot fathom what shadows lurk behind this façade. Nelyo will not see sense, he will not see the snare that loops before him; he will throw himself away upon the rash hope that a thief might relinquish that which he has stolen. This is madness, Káno, this is _folly_ , and you must make him see it.”     

Maglor’s reply Maedhros could not glean, and sternly he had pushed such disparaging words aside. His brothers quarrelled and champed like nervous horses at the bit, but sagely Maedhros stood amongst them, and he had swayed them to allegiance. The Moringotto’s messengers he would meet in a cleft amongst the Ered Wethrin, in a hollow basin delved amid the spires of the mountains some fifty leagues north of Eithel Sirion. Once it was a site of ancient slaughters and black magic, but now he would make it a place of armistice. For it was a truce that Maedhros would bargain for, not an arrogant war waged in his father’s name, and he himself would lead the Noldorin party and determine suitable conditions for negotiation. 

Yet even as that resolution turned in his mind, unbidden anger churned in his blood, and hard he gripped into the edge of the table to still the shake in his fingers. The Oath, that accursed oath sworn in fey mood and wrathful flames pounded in his veins and it renounced all clemency, it thirsted for blood, it crooned for war, but Maedhros would not so easily succumb to its seduction. Strength in arms might not avail his kin in reclaiming the Silmarils; their armies reeled in the wake of his father’s death, they mourned their kindred slain in the battle under the silent stars and wished no more for conflict, and Maedhros would not see the blood of his people further spilled upon capricious whim. The Oath renewed at his father’s deathbed might gnaw at him, and his brothers also; it would cozen patience to careless haste, it would twist sense to base impulse, but he would not fall prey to its demands.

He would not pay its blood-tithe.

Fëanor’s son he was, though his mother’s noble spirit oft tempered his moods, but by it he was diminished in neither pride nor courage, and though sorrow for his father’s death wore at him, it would not be his master. Boldly he had assumed his father’s crown, and grievous tears had spilled down his cheeks as his brothers had proclaimed him their lord. Amid wreckage and steaming ruin he had ascended to a precarious throne, but though grief wore at him, he would do what he must for his people. He had led them from that battle, stricken and stained, he had led them through a night that blotted out even the spangled stars above with its smoke and its horror, and upon the western plains of Mithrim he had seen them regrouped. About the shores of a great lake he had brought them to safety within these hostile lands, and he would do so again.

His brothers fretted as he had armed himself: Caranthir rumbled out his worries as a squire garbed Maedhros in a magnificent breastplate of burnished steel, Curufin scowled down at Huan flopped by his feet as Maedhros tightened the gleaming bracers upon his arms and rolled out his shoulders within his newly smelted pauldrons. Amras held tightly to little Celebrimbor curled up and dozing in his lap, and Celegorm stood tightly at his side, worrying at the cuticle of his nail until Maedhros was sure that he must have torn it beyond all repair. Finally Maglor ceased his worrisome pacing, the rhythmic tread of his steps had sent a faint tinge of nausea rolling through Maedhros’ stomach; he passed Maedhros his sword sheathed within its ornate scabbard, and with every ounce of willpower in him Maedhros forced himself to ignore just how hard his brother’s fingers were shaking.

The lantern light glinted off of the great ruby set into the sword’s pommel, and it threw a lustrous scatter of reddened light across Maglor’s hand as he withdrew. For one sober moment, it looked as though his knuckles were scabbed in blood.  

Suavely Maedhros bade his brothers farewell, and pointedly he ignored the thickness that knotted in his voice as he took his leave of the camp. He would return, he simply promised, and as the armed retinue of his guard assembled at his back, mounted upon swift horses and clad in finest mail, under the clear sky awash with glittering stars his brothers named his words sacrosanct. He would return, they replied in kind, and their people would be made safe; Maedhros _would_ return from this, there was simply no other way. There was no leave to consider alternative events, lest bold hearts quail where they should not.    

Maedhros did not look back as he rode from the camp, as he spurred his horse into a canter up the dusty track that wound northwards across Mithrim’s fields. He could not look back, not at the five of them standing there, limned in the guttering torchlight and such fragile hope. One too few, his heart chimed then, and though shame twined through his stomach with that hateful thought, he gritted his teeth against it. 

Within the stirrups he rose, he touched his spurs once more to his horse’s flanks and gave the beast its head, and he let the tender night wash over him as they sped away across the plains.

_“Liars beget lies, Nelyo, and Morgoth’s foul throne is laced with deceits.”_

Celegorm’s words turned in his mind, but Maedhros would not allow them to daunt him. For as the ranks of his retinue formed up behind him, as Gaelor loosed his banner and Orellë sounded a triumphant horn to the skies above, as the drum of galloping hooves filled his ears, grim, unyielding resolve settled in Maedhros’ stomach, and it would not be undone.

 

* * *

 

To the hollow amid the jagged crowns of the Ered Wethrin the Noldorin party came warily. A winding game-trail they followed for many hours up from the western foothills of the mountains, until at last the basin yawned wide before them, and amid the near outcrops of toothed shale and broken cliff-faces the company arraigned themselves. Lit torches studded the circumference of the hollow below, greasy flames writhed within their weathered brackets and under their fitful light Gaelor passed to Maedhros his great banner; the star of Fëanor’s noble house emblazoned in silver thread upon a field of crimson and set with a glittering diamond upon each cardinal point. Maedhros would suffer no other to accompany him to the treaty itself, for so had been the Moringotto’s terms, and if disquiet plagued him then he hid it well. For smoothly he nodded to his soldiery, and bade them be watchful, and grasping the banner then in one gauntleted hand he vaulted down the final crag of rock, and strode out towards the epicentre of the hollow.

Light flickered upon the eastern hillside, and indistinct scatters of conversation borne upon the breeze belied Morgoth’s retinue shrunken into the rocks there, yet as Maedhros walked out so too did the enemy’s envoy. A sallow-skinned uruk strode forth, clad for war in blackened plate steel, a scimitar at its belt and a mighty helm upon its head, and as they met both parties staked their banners proudly into the ground. Fëanor’s star blazed in the torchlight, and incandescent it seemed, radiant and gleaming, and before it the sable banner of Angband hung, a black field that yielded nothing, like a void ripped open amid the fabric of the world and clotted with shadows.  Beneath such mighty heraldry Maedhros and the uruk greeted each other cordially, yet cold and haughty were their countenances, and in an archaic, corrupt tongue of the forsaken West the uruk laid bare its master’s treatise. 

Armoured fingers gripped tightly to bowstrings, swords hissed partway free of their scabbards as the Noldorin party watched the proceedings keenly; knuckles whitened as for a moment Maedhros recoiled, but as the taut seconds trickled by, no weapon was yet drawn. More easily then rested the retinue’s hearts as their lord swept the russet hair from his face, and it tumbled like a torrent of flame down his back as Maedhros staked out his terms in refute. Ever the party was alert; the air of the hollow was close, thickened with the memories of black deeds and treacheries, it snatched at the throat with a noisome vapour. The craggy outcrops of rock that encircled them seemed all too much like broken teeth howling up at the sky, and their lord and the envoy but fleeting prey in the stone mouth of a leviathan.  

For nigh unto an hour Maedhros spoke with Morgoth’s vassal. The discourse reeled and spun between them, trickeries were unwoven and ambiguities razed, yet at last it seemed that Maedhros had the mastery, and the uruk’s terms were peeled back to their barest bones. Ever Maedhros spoke cautiously; each shift of the uruk’s burly shoulders reminded him of his peril, each sweeping gesture or too-breathy snarl sent a sharp pulse of readied adrenaline spiralling through his veins, but tightly he held himself in check. For all his suspicions it seemed the uruk spoke earnestly, no trace of a lie could he sense within its guttural tones, and its dismay as he whittled down its audacious proposals seemed starkly genuine, yet remorselessly Maedhros pressed his advantage. His people’s safety he would ensure; that accord was paramount, and to that the uruk was grudgingly agreeable. Yet to all entreaties regarding custody of the Silmarils it remained coyly mute, and the first murmurs of unease scratched beneath Maedhros’ skin at the evil look growing in its piggish eyes. The stars wheeled and burned in silent witness far above, and at last a halting accord was made, and though the uruk huffed and growled and balked at the steep terms offered, finally it offered its gloved palm in guise of friendship.   

Graciously Maedhros stepped forward, yet even as his hand crossed the uruk’s, the bellow of a deep-throated bugle crashed out from behind a spur of rock, and Maedhros’ bold heart sank to his stomach. For as he leaned forward black malice glittered suddenly in the uruk’s eyes, serrated fangs were bared in some hideous rictus of merriment, of _mockery_ , and the uruk’s fingers clamped like a vice about Maedhros’ wrist. A dreadful heartbeat passed; the mountains seemed to quiver in the wake of that awful horn-call, but then a clamour took up from the eastern fells, red flares fizzed and sparked, and foul voices cried out, and drums pounded out their wrath as a great host of mailed orcs poured forth, and Maedhros knew that he was betrayed.

A roar of anger arose from the Noldorin party; it crested even to the pinnacles of the hills as ignited in their fury the elves leaped forward, bright weapons in their hands and wrath scored in their hearts. Arrows thrummed through the air; a crude, raven-fletched shaft scudded not two inches from Maedhros’ side to bury itself into the dirt at his feet, and instinctively he flinched away from it even as the uruk grappled him aside. Hard it wrenched at his wrist, muscle and bone squealed their protest as almost beyond endurance they were twisted, yet through that hideous, grinding pressure somehow Maedhros endured, and with his left hand he grasped frantically for the hilt of the knife concealed at the small of his back.

A sheen of panicked, hurting sweat beaded across his brow, the uruk’s grip upon him was remorseless as it sought to heave him bodily about; it felt as though his very armour might be sheared in two under those biting fingers, but though pain flared up his arm Maedhros wrenched himself aside. Dust billowed about the heel of his boot as it skidded across the dirt, the uruk bellowed out its hatred as fleetly Maedhros turned, and after one brutal, scuffling moment of torsion, he drove the knife to its hilt within the uruk’s neck. Dark, hot blood spurted through Maedhros’ fingers, it soaked through his glove, and for one horrific moment it seemed as though everything was shocked into stillness; the wet gurgle upon the uruk’s lips, the gleam of polluted blood in the ruddy torchlight, the slackening of muscles and the juddering twitch of the uruk’s body in its death throes, and the promises that shrivelled upon its lips as it fell. 

For a moment Maedhros stood as one stricken dumb; shock and hurt and senseless, numbing adrenaline pounded in his veins, the uruk shuddered and died at his feet, but scarcely had he time to draw breath anew before a cacophony of sound engulfed him, and something yanked him sharply backwards.   

Embossed shields and the close cluster of bodies enveloped him; metal grated against metal and shone bloody in the light, as into the tight knot of his guards Maedhros was pressed and they swiftly closed rank about him. As a grim battalion beneath Fëanor’s banner they stood, shielded and armed, and as the blankness of shock drained from their lord, as grisly clarity blared its warning in his mind hurriedly Maedhros regained himself, and he bade them stand firm. For upon the eastern hill wild flames leapt; orcs scuttled like black cockroaches issuing from their holes, chitinous and legion, and amid them stalked demons of flame. The Valaraukar were come, monstrous and looming like great pillars of smoke and ruin, and in their hands were wielded flails and cruel spurs, axes and broadswords that dripped oily flames to sizzle upon the stones below. Among them one stood tallest, hulking amid the twilight as some unclean thing birthed from an abhorrent womb, and at his roar the orcs surged forward over the hollow. 

Fury swelled in Maedhros’ heart as he saw their lines break into a sprint, the outrage of betrayal squalled in his veins but tightly he gripped to it, he mastered it, and as Fëanor’s son revealed in the fey glory of his wrath he drew his sword, and aloud he cried: “Hold fast! _Ortaerë, mehtarnya! Ortaerë!”_

A slim volley of arrows peppered the oncoming tide of orcs, but they made pitifully little impact amid their black legions, and with the tangible crunch of metal slammed into metal the orcs crashed down upon the Noldorin ranks. Hard they fought; wanton in savagery and unmatched in skill, and with Fëanor’s mighty star blazing above them the elves rallied to their cause, and undaunted they held their formation. Black ichor steamed upon Maedhros’ blade as he cleaved an orcish skull in two, before slashing hard to his right and sweeping free a scant measure of room before his besieged companion, and the elf at his side scrambled backwards to recover himself as the next foe surged forward. Blades snapped and wheeled, the ground below their feet became slurried with turgid blood and foul, orcish fluids, but though valiant, the Noldor’s stand was not without loss.

Frantically Maedhros twisted past the orcish dart that not seconds before would have embedded itself in his throat, yet behind him came a shriek; and Maedhros whirled as Laerufin staggered, as his friend clawed at the arrow buried to its fletch within his eye socket. Viscera melted down his face like thick, globulous tears, white and clouded and awash with red, a watery spray of vitreous fluid pulsed through his fingers before he crumpled to the dirt below, and horror reeled in Maedhros’ heart. Adrenaline slammed through his veins, it clenched through muscle and instinctively bade him move, and with a savage, unseeing sneer he thrust his sword clean through the belly of an uruk who swung at him. But with the tremendous force of that motion too slow he came to balance once more; a flaming axe hewed through Celairon’s thigh at his side, it sheared through armour and bone alike as if they were butter; and scorching blood splattered over Maedhros’ side as helplessly he watched his friend fall. 

One by one they were slain; the Noldor’s tight defensive knot frayed as the orcs gnawed at it, as the Valaraukar unravelled it; and Maedhros screamed out his hatred as he felt the rush of sundered _fëar_ envelop him, and loathing bubbled in him that his friends might have been defiled so cruelly. For how dare the Moringotto think to cross him; viciously he decapitated the squat orc who leapt at him and sent its grotesque skull tumbling; how _dare_ Morgoth renege upon his vows, how dare he lull the Noldor to their slaughter like some craven, honourless dog; and as the warm splatter of orcish ichor drenched him, a feral snarl ripped across Maedhros’ face. 

Unearthly fury burst through his veins, he slammed his fist into a gnashing mouth, and as he felt teeth snap and bones crumple beneath his knuckles how he revelled in the sting of it. Some vestige of his father’s puissant spirit seemed to grip him then, it hallowed him in its wrath, and as a Noldorin lord fully come to the height of his power he scythed through the orcish ranks. Anger ran thick as blood upon his sword; a howl ripped from his lungs as he smashed aside the club of some leering uruk, as he plunged his blade clean through its mailed chest; and though his company fought and screamed and dwindled about him, Maedhros the orcs could not touch. 

Yet all too soon he felt that unearthly haze of anger slip from him; his breath came tight and fast through gritted teeth as he shoved aside a howling orc, his arms trembled with fatigue, but adrenaline yet spurred him onwards, and he would not allow himself to succumb. Hastily he rallied to himself what remnants of his guard remained, and at his cry they assembled themselves into a bristling phalanx, a bright clutch of silver armour amid a sea of boiling pitch. Shields locked in grim formation, their boots scraped defiant furrows into the wetted soil as the orcs threw themselves upon their barricade, yet none might penetrate it, and as a fortified company they began to cut themselves free of the slaughter. Too many had fallen; the warning blared through Maedhros’ mind as he stabbed through a narrow slot of the shields, too many lay gasping or sightless upon the churned dirt, but fiercely Maedhros held his nerve, and as one the Noldor made their steady retreat. A hail of arrows clattered down upon them, one whipped past Maedhros’ face as he ducked beneath his companion’s shield, yet in those taut, breathless moments, the hammer stroke fell the hardest.   

Great flails of fire scythed out across the soil, they snared about the legs of the defenders and ripped them asunder, and in shrieks of agony and the sear of bubbling metal the phalanx collapsed to its ruin. A flare of red light blossomed to Maedhros’ left, and desperately he tumbled aside of the whip that sought to grasp him; his shoulder and back crunched into the soil as he dove to his side, but a devastating arc he cleaved about himself with his sword as swiftly he righted himself once more. Howls of glee echoed in his ears as his party was savaged, the breath jerked into his lungs as clarity crashed down upon him; there were too many orcs, there were _too many_ , the field was lost; Gaelor fell with a cruel dagger skewered through his throat, and cold dismay clove through Maedhros’ heart. Quickly he ducked the axe sent swinging towards his head, with one agile twist he sent his assailant flailing to the dirt below him, but even as the orc fell he glimpsed the company that lurked behind it, an evil light in their eyes and eager weapons in their hands. 

A savage pike-thrust he swiftly turned, the blade skidded upon his sword’s tang with the rending squeal of metal upon metal, yet into the momentum of that parry he twisted himself. The heel of his boot scored a crescent furrow into the bloodied soil, and aside of the advancing orcs then he leapt, he launched into a desperate sprint towards the ragged few of his kinsmen left standing. Over bodies dead and slowly dying he vaulted, the hilt of his sword he smashed into the face of a howling orc that ran at him, but through those frantic seconds lost horror bled through him as not five metres before him Rirlossë staggered backwards from a brutish uruk, her shattered arm clutched to her chest, and a keen of anguish upon her lips. And how fiercely Maedhros dove forwards then, he hefted his sword and clove clean through the uruk’s corded neck; he yanked his blade free of the uruk’s twitching body and ran towards his friend left spluttering amid the broken ground.

Too late he came to see the deft scimitar that slashed across his belly; it was only the craftsmanship of his cuirass that saved him from being eviscerated then and there, too late he came to parry that awful blow before the air came smashing out of his lungs. His sword skittered awkwardly upon an uruk’s scimitar as it lunged for him once more, pain bruised across his abdomen from the dread concussion of that blow, but a swift, dirty kick to the back of his knees sent him toppling. And in those clotted, viscous seconds he couldn’t breathe; Rirlossë was hewn in a steaming arc of blood before him and he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t save her, he couldn’t _move_. His lungs seemed paralysed in his chest, his right hand scrabbled for grip upon his sword as he saw the uruk come to stand before him, but too slow, _too slow_ ; panic hammered in his veins, instinct shrieked at him to move, but left winded and gasping, helpless he was to dodge the kick that slammed into his guts. 

The impact of it left him gagging; agony roared through his stomach, through his chest, but in the wake of its heat something seemed to unlock within him, a whooping cough of air punched back into his lungs, and he jerked back into motion once more. Desperately, clumsily he threw himself aside as an orc swung at him with a cleaver, his fingers closed about the hilt of his sword, and though every muscle in him ached he clambered to his feet once more. Hard he panted; his hair tumbled in a messy russet straggle down his back; his lips twisted into a feral snarl as the orcs fanned out before him, and an awful cry rang out over the hollow.

**“Take him alive!”**

The Balrog captain’s bellow seemed to reverberate through the very earth, and dread spilled through Maedhros’ innards.

They could not take him, they could not; the consequences of such an abhorrence would be unthinkable, and so they would not, they would not take him alive, they would not lay so much as a filthy finger upon him. For once more Maedhros rallied himself, rage erupted through his heart, and laced with the first quivers of fear it spurred him to move. A bestial howl tore from him as he twisted aside the javelin thrust at his side, the crash of his elbow sent the weapon’s shaft splintering as in its wake he darted forward, he smashed his bracer into his opponent’s cheek and all too satisfying was the wet crunch of bone beneath his arm. Yet scarcely had he drawn breath anew when another orc swung at him, his heart pounded a dark tattoo within his chest as with a shrill clatter of blades he parried it, and the maelstrom of strokes that fell behind it, yet dismay tangled about him as in those precious, futile seconds he sensed the thick crowd of orcs begin to truly encircle him.

Furiously he fought; they would not take him, _they would not take him_ , the thought screeched through his head as his boots skidded through a mire of blood, but as a fiery whip suddenly cut towards his head, in that terrible instant he came undone.  

For even as he ducked the blow, a steel-capped boot slammed into the back of his thigh, a dagger scored across his breastplate and under their combined onslaught he stumbled, his knee twisted awkwardly beneath him as he lurched to regain his balance. Yet even as he struggled to right himself clawed hands came down upon him, gnarled fingertips gripped about his shoulders, his arms; vile fingers wrested his sword from his hand, and though he thrashed and spat in their tightening grip, his efforts were in vain. Hard his legs were kicked out from under him, his knees crashed helplessly to the mud, and the blunt impact of a boot to his groin set him retching on nothing but acrid bile.

To the ground they wrestled him; they slammed his face into the befouled soil, and yet more of them piled atop him as he spluttered. The press of them was suffocating, hot and scrabbling and foul; dirt grated over his cheek, pink abrasions tore across his skin amid the filth that coated him, but panic bolted through his veins, and desperately he kicked out. A grimace contorted his bloodied face, he writhed and shook with every ounce of terrified strength that he had left to him, and a bellow of rage loosed from his throat as suddenly he tore his right arm free of their grip. Hard he kicked out then, his boot clanged off of chainmail armour but even that stunted momentum was enough, and with a colossal effort of will he lunged up to smash his fist into an orcish face, and desperately he tried to roll himself away. But such boldness was cruelly rewarded; meaty fingers knotted through his hair and wrenched him upwards, russet locks flowed like tongues of flame through fingernails slaked in gore, and like a puppet dragged by sadistic strings he was heaved up to his knees. Iron hands clamped down about his shoulders, he bucked and screamed against the press of them as with near bone-breaking force they wrenched his arms behind him, and horror seethed in his heart as he felt bonds of cord being looped about his struggling wrists. 

“No!” he screamed, though pain raced through him panic lent strength to his movements, and near blind with fear he tore against the orcs that held him. “No,” he spat; he grunted and shook as a savage jerk upon his hair pulled him up short, and those hateful fingers only grasped him the tighter. “No, no, let me go! Let me go!” 

“ **Bind him tightly, now** ,” a Valarauka boomed, and the orcs seemed set aflame to hear their commander’s encouragement.

Frenzied hands clutched to him; shrill panic trembled in Maedhros’ throat, anger and terror waged their devastating war within him but through filth-stained lips he screamed, “Stop! Stop, let me go! _Let me go!”_

Ugly, jeering laughter broke in his ears, the cord about his wrists was knotted cruelly tight, and near incoherent with rage and horror Maedhros bucked, he thrashed and squirmed and spat, “Fuck you! _Fuck you_ , let me go! Let me – “

The blunt impact of an axe-shaft slammed into his solar plexus sent stars scattering across his vision, and severed his shriek in one wet, choking cough. Breath rattled into his lungs; deathly torpor for a moment gripped him, it slackened muscle and deadened nerves, but even as he spluttered and retched, even as choking tears blurred over his eyes the orcs grappled him and hauled him to his feet. Coarse hands shoved him forwards, he shied and kicked and spat with every ounce of breathless determination in him, but as he stumbled amid the mangled ground the orcs only dragged him onwards, towards the eastern hills and the flames that roiled there.

The clamour of battle dwindled to the mournful keens of the dying, but in his fear Maedhros scarcely heard them. Before three monstrous Valaraukar he was dragged, and four burly uruks held him fast as their flame-filled eyes appraised him. 

The heat of them was terrible; greasy rills of fire dripped from their broad wings outstretched in the gloom, and their bodies crawled with smouldering embers of flame. One amid them stood tallest; the crushing malice of him was as a tangible force, and rage boiled in Maedhros’ heart as he recognised the hideous horns that curled from the Balrog’s scalp. Gothmog it was who stood before him; dread commander of the Umaiar, usurpers and betrayers all, the one whose whip had sliced through his father’s cuirass, who had lacerated his fair face with its spray of fire, the one who condemned his father to death. The desperate reality of his situation sank like skewering thorns through his heart, but as the air scorched through his lungs still he twisted in the uruks’ grip, and before the Valaraukar’s loathsome feet Maedhros spat, “Fuck you! Fuck you and your vile kindred, demons! Let me go! Let me go, or – “ 

A brutal clout across his face sent the words spinning from his mouth; it sent his head reeling, and himself lolling back into the uruks’ grip. A fiery sneer clove across a Valarauka’s face, the one upon the left with a broken horn and a scarred chest, and menacingly it growled as it stepped back into line behind its captain. The flames about them shimmered as a sickly, blurred halo in Maedhros’ eyes, they refracted and spun dizzyingly before him as Gothmog quickly nodded, and sharp sensation shook him back to clarity as he felt the grainy knot of a cloth gag being worked against his lips. Desperately he fought against it, blood frothed crimson upon his lips as he clamped his jaw shut, as he grunted through gritted teeth that felt loosened in their sockets from that horrific blow. An uruk’s fingers dug agonisingly hard into his cheeks, they crushed into raw, traumatised skin, and wordlessly Maedhros screamed as he felt his jaw at last pried open, and his protests were severed into warped, guttural groans as the cloth gag muted him. 

His heartbeat seemed all too loud in his ears; horror blazed in him as he felt the gag fastened cuttingly tight at the back of his head, and Gothmog rumbled something in a scraping, foreign tongue to the uruks that held him. The last thing that Maedhros saw was the triumphant leer of an orc captain as a thick cloth hood was roughly shoved over his head and fastened securely at his throat, and fear stole the strength from his limbs as a raucous chorus of voices erupted around him. 

The Balrogs roared out their orders in some harsh tongue, and then again, and Maedhros froze as he recognised the lilting patterns of corrupt Quenya amid their dark tones. 

 **“We march east,”** a deep voice bellowed, and Maedhros flinched in horror as he felt himself passed between the company of uruks, they pushed him about as if he was nothing more than a rag doll until a fresh set of hands grasped him firmly, and miserably he stilled within them. **“Collect what treasures you may from the field, but the elf’s sword and banner I claim in tribute to our lord. Make haste, we march with the shadows!”**

The scuffle of bodies pressed close about him; the blank darkness of the hood was so awfully disorienting, but sharply Maedhros cried out behind the gag as suddenly he was pushed forwards. Stern hands locked about his arms and though he tugged and twisted against them he was forced to walk, bound and blinded and onwards into darkness.

“Slay any left alive!” A thin voice barked behind him, and with its words and the roar of orcish glee that met them, blank despair crested in Maedhros’ heart as he was led away. “Leave the dead to rot.”

 

* * *

 

The hot, frightened pants of his own breath were all that Maedhros knew to be certain; everything else was but some hideous dream painted in sore, tired flesh, a dream from which he could not awaken. For how many miles the orcs had dragged him, had pushed him this way and that and growled at him to walk, he did not know; time and footsteps blurred into an aching monotony from which there was no respite. Muted and blind they led him, and though the orcs were not careless, neither were they kind. Rough hands gripped about his shoulders and yanked him aside when the terrain shifted, his boots scrabbled for purchase upon the broken shale as slowly they began to descend, and through the panicked clutter of his thoughts Maedhros guessed that they wound now across the easternmost slopes of the Ered Wethrin, and down to the sparse plains of Ard-galen below. His bound hands dragged painfully at his bonds as the treacherous ground slid beneath him, as for a few nauseating seconds he felt himself begin to truly slip, but each time he was swiftly steered about, and an orcish snarl broke through the claustrophobic confines of the hood about his face and bade him walk onwards.  

His legs ached beneath him as for what seemed a slow eternity they trekked; the ground undulated sharply beneath him, and as the flurried adrenaline of battle drained away, as blank shock began to bite more often he stumbled, and with lessening patience the orcs righted him. Desperately he tried not to flinch as their hands grappled him, he tried not to whimper behind that foul gag as the horror of his situation seeped through him, but he could not stifle his squeak of alarm as his ankle caught upon a jutting spur of rock, and helplessly bound he toppled.

Pain flared across his knee as awkwardly he fell, he could feel the wet slick of blood blossoming even from behind the protection of his sturdy poleyns, and in the brief moment before an uruk grasped for him, he ground his knee into the rock. A dark smear of blood he daubed there, and some tiny shred of hope ignited in his heart even as he was pushed on into darkness.

Turko would find him, he thought to himself; the words danced like a frantic, fragile prayer through his head, and viciously he clutched to them, to the one slender lifeline amid the chasm of despair that reeled open before him. Turko would find him, and Pityo would be at his side; there were no hunters more skilled among the Noldor. Even amid the trackless mountains his brothers were adept, and Huan was relentless in pursuit of prey once scented by blood. Turko would find him, he had to. _He had to_. 

The words flitted through his mind like some sick, crooning lullaby. Turko would find him, and Káno would take him home.

Tears prickled behind Maedhros’ eyes as hours later he was pulled to a stumbling, exhausted halt, but frantically he blinked them away. Muffled shouts filtered to him through the thick hood, garbled snarls in some guttural tongue bounced about him, and at this break from the weary dullness of the march his straying thoughts quickly sharpened once more. Rank sweat plastered his dishevelled hair across his cheeks, a ribbon of drool dripped humiliatingly from his lips pried open about that aching gag, each sticky press of the hood to his face hissed across abraded skin, yet desperately he tried to ignore the hurts that plagued him and to focus upon the commotion of sound that whirled about him. Warily he listened to each foreign voice, and dread clenched in his stomach at what their words might portend. 

His legs trembled with fatigue; his fingers twitched weakly within the bonds that cut painfully into his wrists, and violently he started as without warning he was pushed to his left, and forced to march some short distance across crunching, gravelled soil. Abruptly then he was halted, jabbering voices swirled about him, and a whimper flickered in his throat as he felt new hands close upon him. Harsh fingers fumbled with the straps of his bracers, with the buckles that secured his cuirass; he squirmed as hands groped between his thighs to unfasten his cuisses, but a sharp cuff to his shoulder stilled such protests, and hatefully he endured their touch. They stripped him of his armour, and as the cold mountain air lapped over him he shivered in his sweat-stained shirt and breeches, and a grunt of surprise punched out over the gag as suddenly he felt the bonds at his wrists sliced away. 

For a moment he staggered; hot tongues of pain lapped up his arms left cramped and aching from so long in confinement, but before he could take so much as a step the orcs seized him once more, and in one disorienting arc spun him about. Sharply they ripped the gauntlets from his hands, a solid nudge to his legs bade him sit, and with that forcible motion his back thudded uncomfortably up against a sturdy post sunk into the ground. Dismay coiled in his heart as they took his arms once more and bound his wrists cruelly tight about the wooden pillar. The sickly air within the hood was stifling, it stung across the tender flesh of his cheek, and despite himself he whined as he realised that it would not be removed. The orcish voices receded, and left him alone with nothing but the darkness and his nervous thoughts for company.  

Time blurred into a nightmarish morass upon the borders of exhausted sleep and grim waking; phantoms danced and jeered and crooned through his mind, and suddenly Maedhros was in his youth once more. The high walls of his father’s forge reared up about him, the furnace glowed ruddy and hot, and a baby bird was in his hand. Its rumpled feathers were matted in crimson gore, weakly it cheeped as he cradled it within his palms; tears had streaked down his face as he had brought it to his father, as he had for begged him to heal it, to save it. Sternly his father had looked at him, at the ruined, struggling thing in his hands, but whatever his father had said then was lost in the bestial roar of the furnaces, in the bellowing tempest of superheated air and his thin cry amid them. 

His father had snapped the bird’s neck across his anvil.  

Maedhros’ head lolled down onto his chest as exhaustion stole through him, the tightness of the gag tore at his lips and sent waves of such horrible pressure throbbing through his head. Despair clawed at his heart as for what felt like the thousandth time he squirmed within his bonds, he near ripped his wrists bloody in his attempts to free them, but such efforts were made in vain.

Horror bucked unbidden through his veins; frustrated, frightened tears prickled in his eyes, and he no longer had the strength to stop them falling. They carved their hot, stinging tracks down his cheeks; the breath seemed to clot in his throat as the blackness of the hood became strangling. The tumble of his thoughts he could no longer quieten with platitudes. Turko could not find him, the mountains were a maze of canyons and rock-falls and in them he was lost, Huan would whine and sniff but he could not find the scent, Pityo could not sense him; Turko could not find him and Káno wouldn’t come, and –

Approaching feet scuffed amid the dirt some metres from where Maedhros sat, and quickly he stifled the sob that caught in his throat as coarse, muttering voices neared him. Every muscle in him clenched as those mutters only came louder, bolder; instinctively he flinched as gravel pattered over the tip of his boot, but from despair glowed anger, and it burned afresh in his veins. Though bound and blinded, he was yet a lord, he was Fëanor’s son, and he would not quail in the face of his captors.    

“All that effort for this miserable pig?” A sneering voice whined before him, and Maedhros started as amid the slurred intonations of misshapen lips, he recognised the corrupt, basal form of archaic Quenya, and the orc’s crude words seared through him. “Nar, should’ve gutted him in the hollow, left him red and gasping with the rest of them.” 

“Spilled ‘is entrails through the dirt an’ made ‘im lick ‘em up!”

“Painted them across his pretty face, hmm, and made him crawl in the mud where he belongs!”

A tangle of voices jeered, and rigidly Maedhros held himself still as their scorn crashed down upon him.

“Crawl, little piggy,” one gloated; a thick, drooling note to its voice. “Then maybe we could’ve opened him up, eh? Had a little bit of _fun_?” 

Dark, ugly laughter echoed in Maedhros’ ears; he near shook with abhorrence as that vile insinuation was laid bare before him. It was evil, it was _sick_ , and tightly Maedhros gripped to his outrage to stifle the awful, cramping fear that pulsed beneath it. 

“Y’hear that, _snaga_ ,” a deep voice growled, and an iron-shod boot clipped into the side of Maedhros’ thigh an instant later. “My boys should ‘ave their fun with you. Such troubles we took with you, you might give us a little pleasure in return…”

Horror clove through Maedhros’ heart as he felt the orcs press forward, desperately he bucked as he felt the flush of hot breath upon him, he kicked and squirmed and _screamed_ behind the gag as fingers locked about his ankles, as they began to pull his legs apart –

**“Away, Dagmur!”**

The bellow seemed to reverberate through the very stones, and Maedhros near sobbed with relief as he felt himself relinquished, and the orcs stepped back from him in dismay. His heart hammered within his chest, nausea squirmed in his stomach as the breath skidded back into his lungs, and as tightly as he could manage he curled himself up to ward off whatever new evil might approach him.

“Why, Captain?” the deep voice called, and a chorus of snarls accompanied it. “He is a slave, for so we’ve captured him. We cannot take our sport with him?” 

 **“He is not yours to despoil.”** The rumbling baritone of a Valarauka broke through the growls and mutters that heralded it. **“He belongs to our lord, and I will see him delivered whole and un-abused, not torn bloody by your snivelling rabble. You answer to me, Dagmur, and I will have my captives treated with dignity, no matter how much it thwarts your desires.”**

“What dignity does this scum deserve?” the orc sneered. “Filthy _snaga_ …” 

 **“To your posts, now!”** the captain thundered; a blast of heat shimmered through the air as it roared: **“Else I will have you flayed for insubordination, you and your miserable company alike!”**

A dissenting grumble rolled through the orcs, but slowly they shuffled off, and relief poured through Maedhros’ heart as he heard them depart. Yet setting towards him then he heard the heavy tread of the captain; unseen things crunched to the stones by his side, and swiftly he steeled himself, he drew to himself whatever shreds of lordliness he had left and thrust them out before him like a shield. 

The hood was ripped from his head in one quick jerk; torchlight blazed in his eyes and set speckled ghosts of light flashing across his vision, and dizzily Maedhros turned his head aside. Matted strands of hair plastered over his cheeks and neck; foul, drying saliva crusted over his chin, but as the crisp mountain air flooded into his lungs somehow it helped to steady him. Mustering himself, he squinted against the blinding glare of the torch laid nearby, and his eyes fell upon his captor squatting by his side. But even through his apprehension, surprise washed through him, for it seemed almost as though an elf sat beside him, a thickly muscled _ner_ made warped by some slow geological cataclysm. Skin black as molten pitch gleamed in the light, and curled horns sprouted from his captor’s temples to curl through hair that licked and danced with tongues of flame. Rivulets of fire cracked like turgid veins up the bared skin of its arms, alike to chasms of magma splintered though ash-blasted soil, and its yellow eyes roiled with a greasy, unquiet light as it gazed back at him.

Gothmog clad in humanoid _fána_ sat before him, or so Maedhros guessed from the curl of his horns, and bitterness dredged through his heart as he recalled all the evils that the Balrog had inflicted upon his kindred. Acrimony scoured through him, and he turned his head aside, and spitefully he stared out at the backs of the orcish war-tents that clustered together some twenty paces from him, their blank rawhide canvas exiling him to the very outskirts of their camp. 

One thick finger the Balrog extended, and stoically Maedhros endured the heat that brushed over his face with its passing, until suddenly the creature tapped upon the cloth gag between his parted lips. 

 **“Scream,”** Gothmog murmured, firmly yet not unkindly, **“and you will wish that you had not.”**

A terse moment of silent passed, but as pain throbbed dully through Maedhros’ jaw, stiffly he nodded. Gothmog leaned cautiously forward then, and with surprising tenderness unpicked the knot behind his head, and worked the damp cloth free from his lips. Maedhros moaned in relief as the gag finally slipped loose; his jaw spasmed and ached as he flexed it, as he swallowed down the sour sheen of congealed saliva that seemed to coat his tongue in grit. Alertly the Balrog watched him, but as the seconds passed and Maedhros showed no signs of crying out, the Valarauka laid the gag aside, and took up a leather skin of water from the gravel by his neatly crossed legs.

Scorned pride stung in Maedhros’ veins as the nozzle of the skin was pressed to his lips, the Balrog’s warm knuckle tilted his chin as if he were some recreant child to be made obedient, but gratefully he drank, and the cool water soothed the filth of the trail from his mouth. He grimaced as Gothmog withdrew the skin, but as the Balrog then took up a bowl of dark, chunky stew Maedhros stared at him in confusion. 

 **“Here,”** the Valarauka said, absently stirring the stew with a spoon. **“Eat.”**

A sudden pang of hunger twisted through Maedhros’ stomach, but haughtily he lifted his head, and with as much defiance as he could push into his voice he replied, “I do not want it… Not from you!”

**“It will be kinder from me than from the others, I promise you that.”**

The blunt tone of _knowing_ in Gothmog’s voice sent spears of foreboding lancing through Maedhros’ heart. For a moment then he wavered: the rich scent of the stew sent hunger cramping through his innards, and though it felt like a betrayal, it felt like a surrender, at last he nodded. He suffered the Balrog to press the spoon to his lips, though his fingers twitched feebly within his bonds as he longed to be freed. As if he were no more than an animal made lame and helpless the Valarauka fed him, but though that degradation stormed through him, still he accepted each spoonful of warm stew past his trembling jaw.

Eventually Maedhros finished the bowl, and as the broth settled like a fortifying, invigorating weight into his stomach, softly he murmured, “Water… p-please…”

Patiently the Balrog lifted the skin to him once more, and gratefully he drained it. Somewhat refreshed then he shifted himself slightly, the heels of his boots crunched as they slid across the gravel, and he pushed himself a little more upright against the wooden post that crushed between his shoulder-blades. Gothmog watched his motions neutrally, but as a wince crossed Maedhros’ face as he settled himself, the Valarauka reached for the gag once more. 

“Wait!” Maedhros croaked; the words sounded pathetic even in his own ears but still he spoke them to keep that awful gag from his lips. “Wait… you… You’re taking me to him, aren’t you? To… to the Moringotto, to Angband…” 

Solemnly the Balrog nodded: and as the confirmation of that horrible truth crashed down upon him in all its undeniable clarity something in Maedhros’ chest seemed to buckle. Horror flooded through him afresh, fear and hatred and such bitter fury swelled in his heart, and as angry tears glossed over his eyes savagely he blinked them away.

“Please,” he whimpered, and how he hated himself for it; he hated that he subjected himself to this creature, he hated that he begged for its mercy, he cursed every blind, arrogant, _stupid_ decision that had cast down him so low, but still the words poured from him. “Please, please just let me go… Release me, and… “ 

 **“And what?”** the Balrog murmured, and the soft rue in its tone only stripped bare the cruelty of its truths. **“Your bargains are empty, Noldo. As the soldiery might not take their pleasures with you, your freedom is not mine to barter.”**  

A hitching sob caught in Maedhros’ throat, despairing tears blurred in his eyes, and to his utter abhorrence he felt the gag pressed to his lips once more. Beseechingly he whined, he shook and twisted and grunted but with appalling ease the Balrog held him still, and slipped the cloth behind his teeth. Defeated tears trickled down his bruised cheeks, through eyes limned in swollen, reddened flesh Maedhros watched as the Valarauka checked his bonds once more, and then silently withdrew. His cloven feet left blackened marks singed into the gravel, and as the quiet snuffle of muted tears rolled through Maedhros’ chest, for a moment Gothmog turned back.

 **“Sleep while you can, prince,”** he said slowly, almost sorrowfully; and his words drenched Maedhros in nothing but despair. **“For my home is forged of nightmares, and you will find no rest there.”**

 

  

* * *

 

 _Well, I really hope you've enjoyed what you've read so far! I though a nice little battle-scene and its aftermath to get everyone warmed up... But genuinely I hope you liked it, and I hope everyone would like to read on, as I'm really excited about continuing this fic (assuming everyone doesn't suddenly turn around and go 'euuuugh no'!) Questions, comments or concerns are always welcome, either here or at the heart of my lair: markedasinfernal.tumblr.com  
Thanks for reading thus far, and with any luck I shall update speedily(ish). Yours, theeventualwinner x_  

_EDIT: Check out[this jaw-droppingly stunning drawing of Gothmog](http://givenclarity.tumblr.com/post/122842864911/i-couldnt-help-drawing-a-quick-gothmog-based-on) done by the wonderful givenclarity on Tumblr! _


	2. A Hollow Crown

There was no dawn to break the fathomless night, no gentle morning light to chase the stars from the sky and wake the sleeper from his repose. No, it was the ugly blare of a bugle and the cries of orcish voices that jerked Maedhros from a sore, uneasy sleep.

Slowly he blinked his eyes open; he peeled apart the grainy silt of tears that near sutured them shut, and a low moan echoed out of his throat as that tender sensation only seemed to sharpen all others. Pain thudded through his head; the gag clasped achingly tight about his jaw, and what thick saliva that he managed to swallow tasted rancid upon his tongue. The stake to which he was bound crushed into his shoulder-blades; his arms had long since numbed behind him and his fingers deadened, and as the he tried to flex some life back into his wrists rubbed raw by the abrasive cord little reward did he gain for his efforts. Time drifted into a slow stupor then; discomfort ebbed as an unrelenting tide through his body left cramped by such unyielding restraint, and the stars above were unmoved by his suffering. Coldly they stared down, distant and impassive, and where in them once Maedhros had found delight now their emptiness sickened him, and he turned his face from them in dismay.

With astonishing efficiency the orcs disassembled their camp before him: tents were folded in great swathes of rawhide and cloth and packed tidily away, under the Valaraukar’s watchful eyes troops crunched across the gravel and assembled into their companies. The raucous bursts of their merriment as they shared bread and strips of dried meat shattered the solemn mountain air, it seemed a blasphemy against the silent majesty of the hills.

Grimly Maedhros watched their activities, and as the orcs’ movements grew more fervent he steeled himself for what might come ahead. The horrors of imagination were yet unfounded, he told himself sternly; he scraped together whatever fraying knots of nobility he possessed and he bound them fast within him. Turko might yet come, he _would_ come; surely by now the ill news of the parley had reached his brothers’ ears. It was no secret where the armistice was to be held, and sorrow tinged Maedhros’ heart to think of the horrors that they would find there; his people, his _friends_ strewn about like flotsam broken upon the shore, mangled amid the carnage of battle. They would realise soon enough; they would not find his body among the slain, and Pityo would know, Pityo _always knew,_ that he was still alive, and taken captive, and with every hour lost their hopes of regaining him became slimmer.

Turko would know what to do, Maedhros crooned to himself; he clutched tightly to that conviction as a hefty uruk broke from its pack and stalked towards where he sat bound. Turko would find him, there was still time; the thought kindled a fresh surge of defiance in his heart as the uruk halted beside him, and Maedhros tilted his chin to meet its boorish gaze. His blood he had daubed across that rock; his grazed knee had drizzled crimson spatters to the gravel below him through the night, and the trail of so large an orc company could not be easily erased, not even through the labyrinthine gorges of the Ered Wethrin. Huan would smell him, and Turko would find him, and Káno and Moryo would ride up with vengeance in their eyes and they would bring him home. This was only a temporary endurance; it had to be, _it had to be_ , it _would_ be, and that fortifying thought sparked into brash anger as the uruk knelt before him.

He grunted in protest as thick fingers fumbled through the tangle of his hair and wrenched the gag from his lips. The force of it was horrific, tender flesh throbbed out its despair at such abuse, but Maedhros scarcely had time to moan in relief before the uruk grabbed hold of his chin. Its fingernails jabbed painfully into his cheek as it forced him to raise his head, as it pried his lips open once more and the nozzle of a waterskin was forced past his teeth. Desperately Maedhros gulped as water flooded into his mouth, it dripped uncontrollably over his chin as the uruk squeezed down hard about the skin, but as best as he could Maedhros swallowed, and gratefully he felt the worst of the grit in his mouth sluiced away. He slurped the lingering droplets from his lips as the uruk yanked the skin away; the gag it took hold of once more and Maedhros blanched as he saw it raised towards his face. 

“No,” he croaked. “No, please… Please, d– “ But with what swift cruelty were such plaintive protests quashed; the uruk bared its stumpy fangs in a remorseless grimace, and it wrestled the gag back behind Maedhros’ teeth. 

Swiftly then the uruk unknotted the bonds about his wrists; it barked something at him in clipped, ugly syllables, and through the prickling hurt of cramped limbs suddenly cut loose from their bonds Maedhros stared at it in confusion. Again the uruk spoke, and pointedly it kicked into the side of Maedhros’ thigh, and though pain made the motion awkward, Maedhros clambered to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him as the uruk hauled him about, his boots scuffed through the gravel as it seized him by the arms, and horror stole through his heart as it bound his wrists anew at the small of his back. Frantically he writhed as the knots tightened, he grunted and squalled behind the gag as they chafed into skin already fragile and raw, but a menacing cuff to his shoulder stilled such feeble dissent, and hard Maedhros fought to quieten the whimpers of dismay that murmured in his throat.

Into the snarling company of orcs Maedhros was pushed then, and firm hands closed about his shoulders as he was made to stand. The Valaraukar conferred amongst themselves in a tight knot of blackened skin and greasy rills of flame, and as the last of the campsite’s packs were swung across orcish shoulders and the soldiery made ready they arose within the gloom. Glowing cinders flurried skywards, great rivulets of fire squirmed along their arms as they rolled out their massive shoulders, and with a guttural roar they bade the company move out. 

A sharp push upon Maedhros’ shoulder jolted him into a stumbling walk, and wearisomely then he followed the broad back of the uruk who strode before him. At least he was not blinded this time, he thought to himself; whether it was some small mercy of Gothmog’s or whether the orcs simply tired of having to shepherd him so closely he did not know, but that suffocating hood was not put to him again, and for that alone he was thankful. 

For punishing hours their march continued. Time and distance blurred amid the undulating spires of the Ered Wethrin’s easternmost foothills; a cavernous ravine fell away upon Maedhros’ left as the orcs pressed him close along a ledge cut precariously into the mountainside, and the near-constant jostle of their pauldrons or hands against him became an evil almost beyond endurance. Wiry arms held him fast as they traversed the steep cliff-faces; the orcs quarrelled and grumbled amongst themselves as they scrambled across the remains of a rock-fall that had obliterated the trail, and as Maedhros’ bound hands proved only a hindrance amid such treacherous terrain they all but tossed him between them. At last they tramped down a crumbling gorge and wound their way through a series of splintered, disorienting gullies, and how fervently Maedhros loathed the rough push and tug of orcish hands upon him as they turned him this way and that amid the shadowy rocks.

His legs ached after that exhausting descent, but where Maedhros had prayed for some small respite as finally they reached the rolling flatlands of Ard-galen, he found no succour. For a hideous clamour took up amid the company as they spilled out upon the verdant plain, voices cried and three quick blasts upon a hunting horn were sounded, and with a roar the vanguard of orcs surged forward under the command of a Valarauka. Amid the rest Maedhros was hounded into a shuffling run; more than once a whip sizzled across his back as he stumbled upon a rabbit-hole or some hidden unevenness within the soil, and he bit back a scream of torment as the orcs struck him, jeered at him, and pushed him on again. 

Every step he took was hateful; every pace was another distance from his home, from those who loved him, from those who might be looking for him, and a grey pall of despair clouded Maedhros’ heart as the spires of the Ered Wethrin grew distant in his eyes. North-east the orcs bolted; like demons spilled out of some horrific nightmare they loped across the plains, tongues lolling and eyes set aflame, and miserably Maedhros yelped as the whip played again across his shoulders. It licked about his arms trapped painfully behind his back; bile burned up in his throat as he retched with the stress of such relentless exertion, it frothed behind the gag that seemed to clench tighter into him with each passing hour. The breath howled in his lungs, and as the orcs’ ruthless pace continued at last he began to stumble with true exhaustion; the toe of his boot caught upon a stubborn grass-root and helplessly bound he toppled. His shoulder and chest slammed hard into the dirt, a desperate snort of air punched out of his lungs with the impact, and despite himself he moaned with the hurt of it as the orcs hauled him up again, as a short crop snapped across the back of his thighs and bade him run once more. 

Humiliating strands of white, bubbling saliva drooled uncontrollably from his lips; blank dismay yawned open in his heart, and it was far, _far_ too much of a relief when at last the orcs called a halt to their march.

Amid the open prairie the orcs assembled a lightly furnished camp; ghostly fires sprung up amid the grass where the Balrogs set light to them, and Maedhros was pushed to the dirt at the side of one. He scarcely felt Gothmog’s fiery hands binding a length of cord about his ankles, he barely tasted the thick soup that the Valarauka spooned past his lips; exhaustion seemed to bleach him of all feeling, of all sensation and thought save for the numbing ache in both _fëa_ and body. Finally the Balrog watered him, and laid him by the fire to rest like some hobbled beast, and with the low murmur of orcish voices in his ears fatigue claimed him truly, and he tipped down into a dark, dreamless sleep. 

For two gruelling days they continued: the company pounded across the trackless fields of Ard-galen, and Maedhros stumbled within their abhorrent embrace. Some thin, slimy concoction Gothmog had forced him to drink upon beginning their march afresh; he spat and retched and struggled as much as his bonds would allow as the caustic potion seemed to scour through his innards, and he whined with the sheer awfulness of it as the Valarauka fastened the gag back behind his teeth.

 **“Endure, elf lord,”** the Balrog said, and though his words were softly spoken, there was no remorse in his eyes.

But though he swayed as Gothmog cut loose his ankles and pulled him upright, he could feel the potion’s energies kindled in his stomach. Like some pulsing ember set aglow within him it burned, and from it he drew the strength to carry on, though it was not without hardship. The orcs’ whips sliced his back as the gentle grasses grew sparse and brittle and the lands became treacherous underfoot, strewn with rocks and groping twists of blackened lava. Upon the northern horizon dark smudges loomed up, the dread Thangorodrim bared their fangs to the sky like black pillars of malice reared up from the badlands below, and blearily Maedhros squinted up at them. Their crowns were hidden in a noxious smoke, thick and whirling and grey, and the reek of sulphur and ash plucked at Maedhros’ throat as the company’s pace finally slackened to a brisk walk.

The ground trembled underfoot, now and again it rumbled grievously with the geological turmoil that besieged it; magma squirmed many miles underground through veins of charred rock, it broiled and seethed as the fires of the mountains were channelled into immense foundries laid deep beneath the soil. The sudden smack of a crop upon Maedhros’ right shoulder sent him skidding aside a fissure that broke through the dusty ground below his feet; a thin skein of rock crumbled away to reveal a knife-like chasm below, and shock blared through Maedhros’ veins even as he was pushed onwards. Craters and calderas pocked the earth, fissures rent the ground, and from them a wispy vapour coiled, yellowish and opalescent, and the foul smell of sulphur clawed down Maedhros’ throat. Towards the true roots of the mountains they pushed, and slowly that reek became tinged with the scent of metal; harsh and cloying, and it stripped whatever moisture was left from Maedhros’ lips.

Dismal was his mood when at last he was steered onto a cobbled road that wound amid the fractured landscape; the orcs’ eagerness was plain before his eyes as they scented for home, but it was only dismay that tipped through his heart. His brothers hadn’t come, the panicky thoughts trilled through his mind: they couldn’t find him, _they couldn’t find him_ , or if they could then it would be too late, and they wouldn’t come, they wouldn’t save him... 

Such despairing thoughts clove through him, and he gulped in horror as they rounded a sharp jut of the mountainside, and beyond it the Moringotto’s fortress was laid bare. 

Angband he had heard it named, Angamando in his own tongue, the Hell of Iron, and just he thought it. For it was loathsome to the eye: a brute, ugly thing forged of dull black stone and sunk into the belly of the mountain that reared up behind it. It loured within a shallow cleft of the Thangorodrim’s mighty walls; balefully it glared across the barren lands that approached its ramparts, and with each reluctant step Maedhros felt its malevolence press upon him as a tangible force. It cowed the spirit by its sheer immensity, for in the colossal fortifications that swung about from the main keep there came nothing but a glowering sense of might, of cruelty; that there was evil behind those slitted windows and toothed barricades that did not sleep, and would devour all in its malice. Strong and impregnable the fortress sat; minarets and towers twisted with some macabre splendour above its keep set bristling with defences: all sharpened stakes, and flaming braziers, and vast machines of war.

The orcish company grew keen as they tramped up the widened causeway, as flares were set alight amid watchtowers sunken into the hills, but within their press Maedhros lagged. For closer here there seemed a terrible pressure within the air, unnatural and choking; empty cages hung high from the gateway, carrion birds croaked their mournful tongue from their bars, and everywhere death hemmed him close. Stray bones were crushed by the orcs’ iron boots, gargoyles leered down upon him, their snarling faces grotesque and contorted into torturous visages of agony, and past them Maedhros was shoved, jostled, pushed; his heartbeat came all fast and sick and wrong in his ears, and as Angband’s mighty gates swung open before him fear cramped in his guts, and truly then his bold nerve failed him. 

For beyond those colossal facades of riven iron and blackened steel, beyond the raised grille that lurked above like some waiting guillotine there spilled a light; a wet light, crimson and visceral and almost obscene it poured from within, and Maedhros kicked and squalled and grunted in his bonds as the orcs forcibly pulled him into it. No, he wanted to scream, no, no, no, no; the _malevolence_ in the air felt like it might split his head in two, it throbbed like a glede of pain twisted into his skull and with what strength he found the will to fight he did not know. He knew only that he bucked within the orcs’ grip, with every ounce of strength in him he tried to push himself away from that light, away from this place, he tried so hard to wake up, for it must be a dream, a dream, a _nightmare_ ; he would wake up and Káno would be there, Káno would make it stop hurting…

Desperately he fought, but roughly the orcs pushed him forwards, and as Gothmog strode through their ranks and seized him firmly by the shoulder, under the Balrog’s strong hand terror stole through him, and he fought no more. Through those awful gates he was marched; his breath came hot and panicky through his nostrils as he whimpered about the gag, but as the company poured forth into a vast entrance hall somehow that blinding pressure seemed to recede a little from his mind. The abject terror of the gates was undone, and slightly more easily he stood. He gripped down hard upon the fear that stormed through his veins, and he refused to let it command him. 

For a few minutes they lingered within the hall; the Valaraukar bellowed out their orders to the milling orcs, and met swiftly with two tall uruks who emerged from the fortress’ inner corridors to greet them. Their discourse Maedhros could not glean, but quickly uruks nodded and the company was disbanded, and at the end of their proceedings Gothmog’s hand clamped about Maedhros’ upper arm like a vice and drew him down a corridor.

Flares ebbed their reddened light from brackets shaped as snarling wolves, almost carnal they seemed, hot and oily, and as Maedhros was led away he heard a commotion behind him. Quickly he twisted in Gothmog’s grip, and over his shoulder he saw Angband’s mighty gates rumbling to their close: colossal wheels turned and iron scraped over stone, and overwhelming then was the sensation of being swallowed; those terrible jaws closed fast behind them and their barring was as a cry of doom in Maedhros’ ears. Swiftly though Gothmog strode on, and wide-eyed with both fright and curiosity Maedhros stared about him as he laboured to keep astride the Balrog’s pace. 

The corridor was massive, great arches of blackened stone reared up overhead and obsidian pillars anchored them, at once akin in architecture to Aulë’s noble halls that Maedhros had glimpsed in his youth, yet how perverse now in mockery. For though grand in design there was only horror in those walls: statues of some unholy muse were contorted and twisted beyond all recognition, profane carvings were scrawled into the stone, and shadows roiled in fitful, lapping bursts between them. The smell of charnel clung upon the air, sweet and rotted; heavy sable banners hung from the arched rafters, and beneath them Angband’s citizens thronged. Orcs and uruks of myriad stature and form marched crisply to their posts, they saluted briefly before Gothmog before hurrying onwards, and Maedhros felt many a questioning eye linger upon him as they walked. A regiment of black-clad orcs swept past them, their armour darkened and their boots muffled with strips of cloth, and to what nefarious purpose they would be set Maedhros feared to guess.  

Yet amid the bustle of military activity lurked creatures far stranger: a spirit languished within a shadowed alcove, its iridescent eyes blown wide and its peculiar body twisted, all angles and disjointed bones, and fingers thin and brittle as twigs tapped an unnerving rhythm upon the wall as it watched Maedhros pass. A lowing beast akin to some monstrous, shaggy boar towed a cart of goods past; its piggish eyes rolled as an orc tugged lightly upon the ring affixed through its nose and drew it down a side passage, and onwards out of sight. Into a large thoroughfare Gothmog turned him; a strange reptile squawked at him from the shoulder of its orc master, purple plumes burst down the creature’s spine and it flared its clipped feathers wide as it hissed at him, revealing rows of black, serrated teeth amid its glistening jaws. From it Maedhros recoiled, and Gothmog drew him on without pause, but as the corridor gradually quietened and the soft clink of chains ebbed then through the air, anger rose in Maedhros’ stomach. 

Pale bodies scuttled amid the gloom and through their cowering ranks he was dragged, and horror seized him as he glimpsed his Eldarin kin in their misery, shackled hand and foot and forced to labour within Angband’s halls. Dirty faces gazed up at him, a raw wheal dribbled blood down an exposed back, and as an uruk stepped about a pillar with a vicious whip in its hand, fury tore through Maedhros’ heart. Long had it been rumoured that the Moringotto delighted in his slaves, and Maedhros was not fool enough to dismiss such rumours entirely, but such things laid bare in their atrocity shocked him. Onwards still he was marched, and his revolted gaze slid to the cloaked back of yet another of Morgoth’s servants. Black hair fell in sleek waves to the creature’s waist, its strong body pressed into a slave crushed backwards against a pillar, and all too clearly Maedhros could see the shiver in the elf’s body as the creature parted his lips into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Disgust turned in Maedhros’ stomach, and though Gothmog pulled him quickly away it was not fast enough to mask the awful, defeated noise of distress that clotted in the slave’s throat.

About another corner they turned, until a set of ironclad doors loomed up before them, greater than all the rest and somehow more evil. As Gothmog approached the door-guards bowed swiftly, and one blew upon an ivory horn, and the doors swung wide before them, and Angband’s dark heart was revealed. Into the throne room Maedhros was marched, and at the sheer scale of it his mind reeled. The hall was immense; easily ten score metres across and thrice that in length, and it was arrayed in such imposing majesty that it was as some profane wonder to behold. About its pillars serpents and beasts circled and chased in carven battle, its marble underfoot was as obsidian stone shot through with white streams of fire, and flames leapt from great braziers set opulently about the space. 

At once decadent and sparse it seemed, though it dotted with Angband’s courtiers; and upon a tall dais at its very head there rested the Moringotto’s throne. A thing of riven iron it was, brash and monstrous and yet abstractly beautiful. Its craftsmanship was haunting, entrancing even; its tall back fanned out into a grotesque mêlée of spikes that stabbed up towards the shadowed ceiling, yet the throne itself did not hold Maedhros’ attention for long.  

For upon it Morgoth languished: the Black Foe of Arda raven-haired and clad in rich robes of onyx cloth, and dread rose through Maedhros’ stomach as with every step he was dragged closer to the one whom he so hated, the one whom had wreaked such misery upon he and his family. Yet where dread lurked anger unfurled also, for set upon Morgoth’s brow was an iron crown, ugly and toothed, and set within it shone that for which Maedhros yearned. The Silmarils blazed their radiance out across the dais, magnificent in their splendour and untouchable in beauty, and fury blazed in Maedhros’ heart to behold them crowned upon the head of one so loathsome.

Orcs and Maiar stepped aside as Gothmog walked him through the hall, and an expectant silence fell as he was hauled up the stairs of the dais and pressed to his knees before Morgoth’s throne. The graze upon his knee stung as it knocked into the cold marble, the filthy gag sent pain throbbing through his jaw, and though the terror of the Moringotto’s presence drenched him in its chill, anger burned the brighter within him, and with as much lordliness as he could muster he raised his face, and he looked grimly upon his captors.

The Vala’s golden eyes shone with cruel mirth as they gazed upon him, and standing beside the throne a Maia glared at him, all haughty pride and a vindictive smile twisted across his lips. Mairon it must be, so Maedhros thought, if the whispers were true: Morgoth’s traitor now crowned lieutenant, and in all of his master’s evils the Maia dabbled his hand. Cold he seemed, handsome and fey and indomitable in pride, yet with a slight shift of his stance the Maia’s blond hair parted, and caught high across his cheekbone Maedhros glimpsed the purpled bruise that crackled across his face. Broken capillaries curdled even to the base of his eye socket, but whatever dark thoughts flashed through Maedhros’ mind at the sight of such an injury were banished as beside him Gothmog bowed before the throne.

 **“My lord,”** the Balrog rumbled respectfully, **“your will I have fulfilled, and thus moreover. The Noldor’s bargain we betrayed, and their corpses fester in dirt where we left them. Losses we accrued but our efforts were not without merit, and to you now I have brought the one whom you have sought. His sword and banner we captured also from the field, and at your leisure you might claim them, but to you now I gift you the Noldor’s king.”**

A horrific light ignited within Morgoth’s eyes, greedy and lustful, and such was the power, the raw, seething, _victorious_ puissance that thrummed from him then that inwardly Maedhros quailed.

“ _I thank you for such a mighty boon, Gothmog,”_ the lord spoke; his tone rich and elegant, and the lilting syllables of Quenya flowed like honey over his tongue. “ _And well you shall find your efforts rewarded._ _For those who should serve me with loyalty shall find themselves exalted in mine eyes, and the tales of their deeds shall ring in grandeur about these halls for millennia to come.”_

Deeply the Balrog bowed once more, and smoothly he stepped to the edge of the dais as Morgoth’s eyes flicked aside, and to his lieutenant the lord nodded. Archly Mairon moved forward then, a steely look about his silvery eyes, and Maedhros flinched as the Maia’s hands closed upon him. Sharp fingernails trailed across the sore flesh of his cheek, but deftly then the Maia unpicked the knot of the gag, and drawing it neatly from the sweaty, tangled mess of his hair tugged it free of Maedhros’ lips. Pain spasmed through Maedhros’ jaw, and hard he stifled the moan of mingled relief and humiliation as he saw the thin line of saliva that dripped from the gag’s heavy cloth to splatter upon the marble below. 

The Maia discarded the gag with a grimace, and Morgoth shifted upon his throne. It seemed as though a devouring wave of terror washed from him as he laid his glittering eyes upon Maedhros’ face, and he commanded: _“Name yourself.”_  

Hard Maedhros swallowed, but though his throat stung with grit, sagely he raised his head. Before his grandsire’s murderer and the orchestrator of all the evils of this unkind earth he would not quiver, he would not show the fear, the weakness that Morgoth would only delight in, he would not do it, and to himself then he mustered every shred of courage that he could. He thrust them out before him like a shield, and though his heart trembled beneath it he looked the Moringotto in the eye, and his voice was clear and steady as he said, “I am Nelyafinwë Fëanorion, King of the Noldor come unto these lands. I am Fëanáro’s heir, I –“

A dark, merciless chuckle rolled from the Moringotto’s throat; it sent the hairs prickling across the back of Maedhros’ neck and his speech faltering into silence. For in that moment Morgoth’s malice engulfed him, Angband’s infernal majesty swelled, tremors rippled through the marble below him and all who stood in that hall were united in their scorn. Terror clove through his heart, their mockery scorched through his veins and for one hideous moment it was unbearable; like a frightened child so desperately he wanted to run away, to disappear, to hide himself somewhere that such evil could never find him again. It was only Mairon’s hand that swiftly clenched through his hair that stopped him from buckling, it kept his head painfully raised as Morgoth leaned forward, as down into his face the lord sneered, _“You come before myself and mine on bended knee, elfling. You are heir to_ _nothing_.” 

Some tiny noise of protest must have squeaked from his throat; the menace of the Vala’s eyes seemed to scramble every coherent thought in his head, for the Maia’s grip upon him tightened, and a dreadful note crept into Morgoth’s voice.

 _“If you are to claim some birthright within these halls then let it be thus: usurper and craven, the base spawn of a corrupt bloodline, and so we might crown you in the ashes of your father’s memory. Simper there, Noldo_ , _simper and plead, for your legacy is built upon the bones of your kinsmen, and what a ruinous tower to climb so high.”_

Hate spilled through Maedhros’ heart at such injurious words, for one brutal moment it smashed aside fear with the heat of its clamour, and though the Maia’s fingers twined painfully into his hair, at the base of Morgoth’s throne he spat, “Liar! I will not suffer your scorn, Black-Hand! Your tongue is steeped in treachery, and it is a hollow crown that you wear!”

At that the Vala recoiled; displeasure moiled across his features, and righteous, seething anger churned in Maedhros’ stomach. But in the split second before he could draw breath to continue, a stinging slap across his face sent the words spinning from his lips. For before him now Morgoth’s lieutenant stood, and fury was graven across his face. 

“You will not insult my lord in his own hall, wretch,” the Maia hissed, and hard Mairon wrenched Maedhros’ head around as he sought to look away. “Else I will carve out your tongue and force it down your mewling throat.”

 _“Gently now, Mairon,”_ Morgoth purred from his throne, and as the Maia subsided, through teeth washed a watery red Maedhros grimaced. “ _The Noldor are grown feral in their ways that they might resort to vulgar insults within this lordly hall, but what shall be expected of such an ignoble people? Oft it is found that they cannot smoothen their tongues.”_

Through the welt that was rising across his already-sore cheek Maedhros glowered, but as the lieutenant stepped about to hold him once more, he remained silent. 

“ _His people spread like a vermin upon mine earth; they copulate like rats amid the dirt, but amongst themselves might they not be traded for petty favour? Even those who proclaim themselves invincible in their grand delusions; unconquerable in wealth and oh so_ justified _in their wrath, their weaknesses might be so easily exposed, and then how swiftly exploited.”_

At that Maedhros bridled, but tightly the Maia held him, and he could not turn away as Morgoth sneered, _“Fëanáro’s eldest son you hold in your hands, Mairon. The crown jewel of his people upon these lands, or so you fancy yourself, do you not, Maitimo?”_

A cry of outrage burned in Maedhros’ throat, but viciously Mairon wrenched his head back, and his protest died upon his lips.

“ _Indeed,”_ the Moringotto gloated, his eyes alight with baleful glee, “ _I have heard your cradle-names, Noldo, for I was there when they were birthed. But this is not Fëanáro’s only whelp, as well you know, Mairon; and how ardently his brothers lust for the treasures of my keep. Opportune then is Maitimo’s coming to us, and upon opportunity we must capitalise. What say six brothers for the fate of the one, I wonder. What would they bargain for their treasures stolen?”_

Morgoth’s voice thickened then, and gluttonously he looked down upon Maedhros. “ _What might they bargain for your miserable life?”_

Worry knotted through Maedhros’ innards: the thought that he might be held to ransom was no new revelation, but still it stung as it was dangled so cruelly before him. For what might they do; in truth, what _could_ his brothers do? The consequences of such a thing were unthinkable to whichever end they tipped; and likely there was guile in the Moringotto’s words, there was deceit and treachery still. Yet as that concern bubbled within him, beside him Mairon frowned, and a cunning light filled his silvery eyes.

“Six brothers say you, my lord?” he asked, and hard he knotted his fingers through Maedhros’ hair, arching his back until he all but dangled from the Maia’s hand. And what a horrific smile played about Mairon’s lips as acridly he said, “Upon last count, I made it _five_.”

A whimper bolted from Maedhros’ throat; those memories were yet too fresh, too tender, as a glistening wound they shone still bloody within him, and all too swiftly his enemies had aimed for the mark. A dark flush of anger and sorrow mottled down his neck, and how sickly triumphant was the Maia’s voice then as he dropped him back to the floor. 

“Abstinence does not absolve you of sin, _kinslayer_ ,” Mairon sneered. “Do not think that the eyes of Angband are blind to your crimes upon our shores. Our towers see more than you know, they pierce through all of your sordid little perversions…”

“ _You reap what you sow, elfling,”_ the Moringotto purred, and how Maedhros trembled to hear his words. _“And your hands reek with gore.”_

Guilt spilled through Maedhros’ heart, unbidden it wrenched up within him and behind it flowed only rage; the taste of ashes lay thick upon his tongue and something puissant kindled in the base of his stomach, something hot, something hating, the flames of that awful night still burned within him and he cradled them there like an injury. 

“Where is Telvo now, Maitimo?” Mairon crooned, and his words cut down to the bone. “Does he scream, still, under the weight of all that water? Does he plead for mercy, even as he did whilst your flames licked open his skin?”

And with that utterance that burning thing in his stomach seemed to explode; Maedhros wrenched his head aside of the Maia’s grip, and perhaps in that moment some ancient memory of his father gripped him truly, and there bathed in the light of the Silmarils he was the scion of Fëanor’s wrath come again to Arda’s shores, for fervour stoked in his veins, and bold and dauntless was his voice as he cried, _“No!”_  

Fey mood gripped him then, and hatefully he glared up at Morgoth on his dark throne. “Your words are poison, Vala! Injury I have suffered enough at your hands, but no more, for your venom has lost its power to bite! Maggots squirm from your lips, and like flies crawling to dead meat they breed nothing but infection. Deceiver I would name you: ashen-tongued and base, had not my sire decreed the truth of you! Jail-crow he named you, and he named you justly!” 

The silence that fell was livid, and in it all Angband stood aghast. The courtiers stood stricken in their shock, and as Maedhros panted upon his knees it seemed as though the very shadows thickened about the hall. Darkness writhed like drooling ink about the pillars, it bled down the walls, it blanketed the firelight in its deathly gloom and evil glowed within the Moringotto’s eyes. For despite the vastness of the hall suddenly the air stuck close within Maedhros’ lungs, it felt as though someone was stamping down on his throat as sorcery hummed through the air, and second by unnerving second the pressure seemed to tighten, and all who felt it shuddered to feel their lord’s wrath. Like a clockwork spring wound beyond its capacity that tautness shivered in the air, the marble groaned and the pillars creaked, the shadows grew hungry and for a moment the ceaseless light of the Silmarils flickered, and something cramped in Maedhros’ innards.

Pain throbbed low in his guts, and like a vice clamped through visceral tissue it began to twist, to unfurl; discomfort bled to stabbing hurt as with each passing heartbeat that horrific sensation pulsed, it grew, it stole through his stomach, his chest, his legs and with every moment only intensified. Sweat broke upon his forehead as agony pounded through him, maleficent then was the Moringotto’s smile as a low murmur of pain echoed in Maedhros’ throat, and all too soon he was writhing as that awful, crushing sensation overwhelmed him. Truly then he cried out, it felt as though his entrails might split through his skin, his bones would atrophy and his tissues rupture; agony howled in his veins and as a pathetic, gasping series of whimpers ripped over his lips, darkly then Morgoth spoke. His voice was as the scrape of boulders among the hills, drenched with black puissance and filled with malice, and at the terror of his eyes then even Mairon was dismayed. 

“ _You are worthless in the eyes of those who behold you.”_ A gout of pain erupted through Maedhros’ lungs; the marble below him trembled with its lord’s pronouncement. “ _Your throne is false, broken; it rests upon the crimes of your forefathers, murderers and liars all. The seas bleed with the ashes of your heresies, and the bones of your kin lie amid the slurry of the mud. They scream in their agony, they dissolve into the dirt, and craven they call you, coward; you could not even look them in the eye as you condemned them to their death. Do not grovel before me with your pretences of righteousness; a doom beyond the breaking of the world lies upon you, and for it you are accursed. You are faithless, forsaken; kinslayer, you are lower than the filth that spawned you, and I will suffer your impudence no longer.”_

Those portentous words echoed through the hall, their fell echoes were devoured by the shadows that clung there, and under such a terrible onslaught Maedhros simply keened for it to stop. Pain crawled like turgid blood beneath his skin; crushing, rending, polluting; the vile truth in the Moringotto’s words drowned him in his sin and left him bleeding out across the floor.

With a near tangible force the pressure within the hall suddenly receded, and Maedhros gasped in a shuddering, tear-stained breath as all of that agony came undone. Muscles slackened in relief, and upon his knees he slumped forwards, his head bowed as tremors of fright and exhaustion rippled through him. For one dreadful moment the Moringotto regarded him, his lip curled disdainfully, but though his tone then was still dark it had only a ghost of its former puissance. 

_“Remove this snivelling wretch from my sight.”_

Swiftly then Mairon nodded to Gothmog, who had remained stoically upon the border of the dais, and the Balrog now hauled Maedhros to his trembling feet.

 _“Take him below,”_ Morgoth commanded, and an almost disappointed tone sounded in his voice as he continued, _“but see that he is unharmed. In him some may yet find value, perhaps, though he proves it cheap.”_

 

* * *

 

Hot, despairing tears blurred Maedhros’ vision; he scarcely saw the corridors and stairwells laid out like some abhorrent labyrinth across the fortress’ subterranean levels. He knew only that it ached to walk through them. His legs near buckled with the effort of placing one foot in front of the other, every step in this place was hurting, and more than once he found himself stupidly, sickly grateful of Gothmog’s burly hand clasped about his upper arm to steer him, though to where the Balrog led him he did not dare contemplate.

After long, miserable minutes half-blind with fatigue Gothmog at last guided him to a small cell, and dully he stared into it as the door swung open before him. It was a sparse thing; the flagstones were bare save for a thin mattress atop a cot set into the far corner, and a length of coiled chain that was bolted to the floor at its very centre. A tiny culvert was cut into the furthest wall, a strange rune was carved high up into a corner and from it a dim, colourless light bled into the air, and numbly Maedhros stared at it as Gothmog stood him in the centre of the cell. With surprising care the Balrog unknotted the cord about his wrists, and Maedhros bit back a snuffled moan as nerves long since deadened prickled back into life. That pain aided him though, it sliced through the drear mists of despair and brought some measure of clarity, yet miserably still he stood as a servile orc scuttled in behind the Valarauka. A shallow stone basin filled with water it laid opposite the cot, and alongside it a flagon of water and a bowl of gently steaming porridge also, before nodding respectfully to the Balrog and taking its leave. 

The sight of food sharpened Maedhros a fraction more, and worriedly he hesitated as Gothmog bade him remove his boots. Reluctance shook him, but as his stomach grumbled even at the bland scent of the porridge soon enough he obeyed, and though his swollen fingers fumbled with the laces of his boots at last he removed them. Barefoot then he stood, for a moment he swayed as fatigue ebbed through him, but the mournful clink of unfurling chains dragged him back to clarity. For slowly Gothmog unravelled the looped chain upon the floor, and looking then to Maedhros he held the shackle solemnly within his hand.

 **“This may go about your ankle,”** he rumbled. **“Or your throat. Decide.”**

Miserably Maedhros stared at him, dismay curled in his stomach; just for one day he yearned to go free of bonds, but the Balrog’s stare was unrelenting, and finally Maedhros sighed. Shakily he sat upon the cot, and slowly extended his right ankle, and desperately he blinked away the tears that prickled behind his eyes as Gothmog worked the shackle closed about his leg. The metal kissed warmly against his skin, and somehow it was worse than if it were frigid. It felt all too intimate, all too _familiar_ , and Maedhros looked away as nausea turned in his stomach.

Once done the Valarauka stood, and his fiery eyes surveyed the room once before he collected up Maedhros’ boots and turned upon his cloven heel. Towards the door he strode, yet as his hand fell upon it suddenly Maedhros cried, “Wait!” 

The word was hoarse upon his lips, more an instinctive reaction than a true plea for clemency, and slowly the Balrog turned to him, a neutral expression fixed across his craggy features. But in the silence that followed Maedhros foundered: what, truly, could he ever hope to ask that would not fall upon deaf ears, whether uncaring or impotent. What could he ever hope to say to Morgoth’s captain, to the thing that had brought him here, to the beast that had condemned him to imprisonment? 

A wan smile flickered across Gothmog’s lips as Maedhros slumped upon the cot, and quietly then he slipped out of the door and bolted its lock securely behind him.

Torpor dragged at Maedhros’ limbs, but he forced himself to give what strength was left to him. Hard he jerked upon the chain that fettered him; he sought to wrench it free of its moorings or to unclasp the shackle about his ankle, but his efforts yielded no fruition, and as his fingers began to truly shake with tiredness then he let them alone. A few mouthfuls of the porridge then he took, he scooped the bland meal into his mouth with his hands, and though it was grainy he was grateful that at least it filled him. The flagon of water he drained, and over the basin then he hovered, and the dim light revealed only the misery of his reflection. 

His hair hung tangled and lank past his shoulders; his left cheek was swollen into a reddened, throbbing bruise from where the Maia had struck him, and grime mingled with scabbed abrasions from the injuries of the road. They stung as he splashed a handful of water across them, as he wiped away the worst of the dirt that clung to him, and with that fresh hurt exhaustion and worry engulfed him truly. Clumsily he pushed himself away, and upon the cot then he lay, and though the fetter about his ankle chattered out its menace, he did not heed it. For the first time in what seemed a small eternity he curled himself up as he wished, and as his sore eyes finally drifted shut he allowed the oblivion of sleep to claim him.

 

* * *

 

For how long they left him there he did not know; the span of days blurred into a countless infinity, punctuated only by the occasional entrance of the servile orc who refreshed the basin and flagon of water and slopped a new bowl of gruel, or bread, or bland stew at its side. Throughout its brief visits the orc was stonily silent; its lips pinched sourly together and all attempts Maedhros made to engage it in rudimentary Quenya it either did not understand, or ignored completely. It would merely regard him with its eerie white eyes, and upon occasion chitter some unnatural note within its mangled throat as a pigeon might coo to itself, and then depart in silence once more.

The quiet of the cell was oppressive, no sound seeped through the thickly reinforced walls or door; there was only the tinkle of the chain about Maedhros’ ankle, or the faint sigh of his breath, or the clatter of steel inside his head. The screams of battle haunted him, like wounds left to fester they spewed out their infection; Celairon screeched as a flaming axe hewed open his thigh, over and over again he saw it, Rirlossë was hewn before him as his lungs burned, and he couldn’t move, he couldn’t _breathe_ , there was nothing but the erratic, clicking gasps of her torn throat before blood blotted out the stars. To the snares of his own thoughts Maedhros was but prey, in the grim light of the cell they tore at him with sharpened claws and they peeled him apart. 

For what should come to pass if his brothers agreed to Morgoth’s terms? They could not do it, they could not; his people would be enslaved, exterminated. The Moringotto’s promises would be just another feint, bait for them to snatch at and all too late they would come to see the hook behind it, even as he had. It would be Káno, he realised with a jolt; as the heir in-waiting he would ascend to leadership over the Noldor in Beleriand; Káno would have to help them all, to guide them. He would have to be so strong, and he would have to refuse. He would not prostitute their entire people upon the chance that Morgoth’s word held true. He would do what was right, Maedhros knew in his heart, he would do it, he _had_ to do it, but what then would that mean?

His brothers would abandon him to the Moringotto’s clutches, and the terror of what that decision might portend sent nausea spiralling through his innards. For though he was brave and strong in body and in will, Maedhros held no naïve pretences: he had hearkened to the rumours of the evils done in Angband’s dungeons, and to claim that they did not frighten him would be a lie indeed. His brothers couldn’t just abandon him, could they? He was their elder, he was their _king_ ; they could not just sell him like some common whore bartered for their pleasures. No, they had feints of their own, and they would save him, somehow. There must be another way: Curvo would find it, some weakness, some oversight that might be pried apart, and what vengeance then would the Fëanorions wreak upon those who would fetter them. 

Desperately Maedhros clung to such assertions, though ever they tossed within his mind, and with each passing visit of that strange, silent orc worry scratched a little bit deeper. Yet sorely he missed such mild emotions when upon a sudden the door was wrenched open, and instead of the orc’s hunched form, Morgoth’s lieutenant stood tall within the doorframe. Hot, squirming fear broke through Maedhros then; upon his cot he scrambled backwards as the Maia strode into the cell, and at the length of cord twisted about his palm Maedhros’ eyes flared wide. 

“Stay… stay away from me!” Maedhros said, and the shake in his voice disgusted even him. The admonishing sneer that flitted across the Maia’s lips only made him feel all the more pathetic.

“You will come with me,” Mairon said crisply. “Now. Stand, elf lord, and place your hands at your sides.”

“No!” Boldness surged through Maedhros’ heart, and stubbornly he drew himself up. “I will not treat with you, snake! Tell your foul master to come himself, for I will not go with you.”

The Maia’s eyes narrowed, vanished was the bruise once marked upon him, and perilously smooth was his tone as he replied, “I would have this done civilly. Spare yourself a humiliation and come quietly, lest I haul you before my lord already spoiled.” 

Caught upon the rocky shores of indecision Maedhros wavered: he was stronger now, and bolder, yet caution pressed upon his mind. Something about the Maia unnerved him, something vicious lurked beneath that handsome façade, something capricious and roiling and _dangerous_ , something that was all too eager to see him bleed, and though spurned pride stung in his veins at last he stood. Hatefully he endured the Maia’s touch upon him, he allowed the Maia to bind his hands tightly at the small of his back, and as puissance crackled through the room he felt the shackle upon his ankle fall away.

Through the dim, subterranean corridors the Maia drew him then; uruks leered and flares burned dazzlingly bright in his eyes, but Maedhros did not shrink from them. Angband would not daunt him, he told himself firmly, though he was made prisoner he was not beholden to it, and as the silent minutes flowed by at last he gave voice to the question that itched upon his lips.

“You have sent your terms to my kin, then?” he asked of the Maia, the words sounded clumsy upon his tongue but still he pushed past them. “There has been a reply?”

Sharply the lieutenant turned him about a corner, and something sinister rolled in his voice as he replied, “You shall see.”

Worry stabbed through Maedhros’ innards. What had Káno promised them, if anything at all? So much hinged upon this one decision; countless possibilities and potentials and half-truths flurried through Maedhros’ mind with such a frenzied assault that it made him sick to think on them.

What had his brothers sold? He was not sure that he wanted to know the answer.

Through a sturdy wooden door left ajar the Maia at last pushed him, hard, and Maedhros scarcely had the time to regain his balance before the bonds at his wrists were sliced away. His bare feet slipped upon a metal grille set into the floor, giddily he glanced about; the ruddy glow of a furnace burned in his eyes, the shock of it threw phosphorescent afterimages wobbling across his vision, and beside its glowering mouth there were benches set with tools; myriad instruments of iron and steel and leather all tangled there that sent a sharp spike of adrenaline scudding through his veins. 

Before he could fully regain himself a monstrous uruk loomed up out of the darkness, its sheer bulk dwarfed even his strong build, and roughly it seized him. His struggling wrists it forced into heavy manacles strung to an apparatus of chains, and as it hauled upon them the chains drew taut, drawing his arms into a painful crucifix and splaying his chest and torso wide. 

“Stop!” Maedhros spluttered; the breath lurched uneasily into his lungs from the strain of the position, and as best as he could he tore against his bonds. “Stop! What… what are you doing?” 

His protests fell upon uncaring ears, and Mairon nodded over to the uruk, before settling into a cat-like lounge against the opposing wall. “Prepare him.” 

The knife wielded within the uruk’s meaty fingers sent terror cramping through Maedhros’ stomach; he near shredded the skin from his wrists as he twisted and thrashed in his bonds. “Stop!” he shrieked, he bucked and kicked as the uruk neared him, as the blade gleamed red in the forge-light. “No! No, don’t touch me! Don’t – “ 

The tear of fabric stopped the breath in his lungs; a half-hysterical little noise bubbled up in his throat as the uruk sliced through the filthy cloth of his shirt and ripped it from him. More carefully then it parted his breeches, and in turn they were stripped from him, leaving him naked and so awfully exposed before the Maia leaning by the door. 

Disinterestedly Mairon regarded him, yet the Maia’s eyes upon him were awful, and so greatly Maedhros wished that he could shield himself, could hide himself, could reclaim what dignity had been so abruptly stripped from him and simply shove it down the Maia’s arrogant throat.

The deluge of icy water from a concealed alcove above shocked the breath from Maedhros’ lungs; he gasped and jerked as it cascaded down upon him, and filtered away brown and murky through the grille below his toes. He spluttered as the chill of it numbed him, and as he coughed and gasped with the cold, dispassionately then the uruk approached him. A stiff-bristled brush it drew over his chest, his back, his stomach; a fresh tumble of water left Maedhros’ teeth chattering as it rinsed the filth from him. Desperately he squirmed as the uruk resumed, as it scraped the brush over his groin and thighs, and the slight smirk that curled over the Maia’s face sent a humiliating flush mottling over his cheeks as sensitive flesh was so callously handled.  

Finally the uruk grunted out its satisfaction, and it left him there to shiver as it lumbered over to the furnace and began to stoke it. A few blocks of charcoal it prodded into its fiery heart, but though Maedhros strained to glance about, he could not quite glimpse the instruments that the uruk turned within the glowing embers. Dread kindled in him then, but lazily the lieutenant stepped forward, and Maedhros whipped his head back around to face him. 

“What is the meaning of this?” he said; his voice sounded shrill in his ears as barely suppressed panic tumbled in his veins, and though it was stupid, though the answer breaking before his eyes terrified him, still he asked: “Wh-what did Macalaurë reply?”

“Do you not know?”

The Maia’s words seemed to rip him apart; _of course_ he knew, of course he did, but that horrific confirmation did nothing to ease the chasm of despair that reeled open in his stomach. Loss stormed through his veins, betrayal scored through his heart and beneath it turned only dismay, only fear, only hot, hurting _terror_ , and as he saw the uruk’s knife passed into Mairon’s hand he froze rigid.

“Your brothers sold you to us,” the Maia grinned, all pointed teeth and hungry eyes. “Your lordship they renounced, in exchange for their worthless lives, and for their supposed freedom they have surrendered you. They have left you here, elfling, all alone. _All alone with us_.”

“No,” Maedhros whispered; horror squeezed about his throat until the air seemed to hiss into his lungs, and tears stood bold in his eyes as the lieutenant raised the knife to his face. A dampened lock of his hair the Maia seized, and sliced clean it away below his chin, and the words jerked uncontrollably from Maedhros’ lips. “Stop, stop, please… please, they… they wouldn’t… They wouldn’t do that…”

His voice sounded strangled even in his own ears, and fey malevolence glittered in Mairon’s eyes as he regarded him then. 

“Why would they not?” the Maia purred, and all too joyously he sliced through another lock of hair. “Who would bargain for a wretch like you?” 

To that Maedhros had no answer; hopelessness seemed to numb him, it stole the strength from his limbs, and he just hung there shivering as the lieutenant seized another chunk of his hair and hacked it apart. Copper strands drifted sadly down over his shoulders, they clung to his hips, his buttocks, and desperately Maedhros bit down the sob of utter desolation that welled up in his throat. The snick of the knife was abhorrent in his ears as the Maia stepped behind him; it was too loud, _too loud_ , all warped and wrong and horrible, _unthinkable_ ; his fallen hair itched as it clung to his damp back yet he dared not wriggle to shift it. 

“My lord says that you were once named Russandol,” the Maia said suddenly; and viciously he sawed through a matted clump of hair caught at the nape of Maedhros’ neck. “Tell me, how came a miserable thing like you by such a pretty name, hmm?” 

A snarl of hatred spasmed across Maedhros’ face; such a private name upon those foul lips was an insult almost beyond bearing, but defiantly then he clamped his jaw shut. 

“Did _ammë_ give it to you, I wonder?” The Maia’s voice was _sick_ , and fitfully Maedhros jerked as another lock of hair was roughly cut away. “Come now, there is no need to be coy.” 

Angrily he snorted as the Maia slunk before him once more, and gritting his teeth he tossed his head in wilful, silent rebellion as Mairon glared at him. Yet such brittle courage came so swiftly undone as grievously he flinched; faster than his eyes could follow the Maia whipped the knife blade to his lips, and an involuntary whimper of fright seeped from Maedhros’ throat. 

“Keep your secrets, then,” the Maia purred; argent light glittered in his eyes and how Maedhros reviled it. “Better they should be pried out; wet, and drooling across the floor. Better they should haunt you, and when we wrench them forth they might drench you in the shame of their admittance…”

 _“Careful now, Mairon,”_ an indulgent voice murmured, and both captor and captive started violently at the intrusion. For like some malevolent sprite the Moringotto seemed to have slid from the very shadows, unseen and unheard, but tall and imposing now he stalked about the cell to stand before the furnace. The embers danced before his eyes, it set the gold in them ablaze, and the dark, seething power that rolled from him then was as a tangible pressure upon all who stood before him. _“You will ruin the surprise…”_

A feral smile turned over the Maia’s face then, and with a victorious sneer he grasped the final locks of Maedhros’ once proud hair and slashed the knife through them. A messy crop of hair the Maia left hanging about his captive’s neck, and Maedhros quivered as Mairon ruffled his hand through its tattered remains; roughly the Maia petted him as if he were no more than a dog to be abused for his pleasure, and the utter degradation shook him down to the bone. Swiftly then the Maia swept the stray strands of hair from his chest, and as Mairon’s fingers glanced over his nipples Maedhros jerked away from him. 

“How touching, Maitimo,” the lieutenant said slowly; disgust blazed in Maedhros’ heart, but the Maia’s eyes glanced then to his lord who stood still turned to the furnace. For the Moringotto pivoted then, and something unseen shimmered in the air about him, something hot, something _cruel_ , it left ghostly afterimages throbbing in Maedhros’ eyes and fright cramped through his stomach as Morgoth stalked towards him. 

 _“Mairon has seen you properly outfitted, and that is good, elfling,”_ the Moringotto purred, _“for a lord you are no longer. Your brothers have stripped you of that right, and how sweetly might such generosities be repaid.”_  

The brand wheeled before his eyes; cherry-red and forged of some hideous design of knotted iron it sizzled through the air, and Maedhros’ eyes grew wide with horror as the Moringotto brought it to bear. Hard he thrashed within his bonds, he kicked, he _screamed_ for all that he was worth as that horrible, searing stamp of metal burned before his eyes, but viciously the manacles clamped down upon him. Frantically he tore at them; panic lent strength to his desperate contortions, but as both Mairon and the uruk moved behind him to hold him still he could but shake and twitch in their grip. 

“No!” he shrieked, he twisted as that horrific thing drifted nearer to his chest; seething, boiling panic erupted through his veins as even at a distance he felt the heat of it prickle over his flesh left so awfully exposed. “No! No, please, please don’t… Don’t…”

Desperately Maedhros writhed as the Moringotto positioned the brand over his left pectoral muscle, he jerked and grunted and screamed out his protests as his captors’ grips tightened. Hysterical tears of fright rolled down his cheeks as still he shook, he bruised his wrists down to the bone as he hauled against the manacles that held him, but how cruelly his efforts proved for naught.

For Morgoth’s eyes gleamed before him, gold and devouring and _evil_ , and Maedhros could only sob as the lord pronounced, “ _Welcome home, slave.”_  

The _shriek_ that tore through the chamber as the brand pressed to him could have curdled milk within the teat: red, throbbing light scored across his vision and agony exploded through his chest, and far, _far_ beyond voluntary control every muscle in him clenched as excruciating waves of pain crashed through him. They punched the breath from his lungs, and desperately he retched, he gagged and sobbed as the Moringotto’s seal was blistered into his flesh; stamped there in hissing blood and scorched, ruined skin, and strips of blackened tissue flaked from him as Morgoth at last moved the brand away. They had melted to its surface; shock and such unutterable agony slammed through Maedhros’ body, the brand burned and throbbed and _screamed_ upon him, and in that terrible moment it all became far too much.

The last thing he felt was the nip of steel upon his wrists as his body fell utterly limp within his bonds; the stench of charred flesh clung in his throat as his head lolled forward, and agony was blunted away as the blank veils of shock took hold. For into the black void of oblivion that yawned open before him helplessly, gratefully he tumbled; his eyes flickered shut amid that awful dungeon and for a few merciful hours he knew no more in the waking world.

 

 

* * *

 

_And thus truly heralds the beginning of the spiral of nastiness which this fic will slide down, and I hope the wait was worth it! A huge thank you to everyone who left really encouraging comments and kudos on the first chapter - really, it is so lovely to know that you are all enjoying what I write, and it spurs me to keep going, so thank you all so much! As always, questions, comments or concerns are very welcome either here or on Tumblr! Until next time, theeventualwinner xx_

 


	3. Red In Tooth And Claw

_An extra little topic warning before we begin for **non-consensual drug use** , amid the general torture setting, so proceed with care if sensitive to such things! _

 

* * *

Motes of light undulated before Maedhros’ eyes; they pulsed in gentle, lapping waves in time with the agony that throbbed upon his chest. Dimly he watched as those lights moiled before him, true consciousness seemed all too great of an effort, and for a while he floated within an aetherous, senseless gloom. Pressures, touches, vision; they all blurred into one confusing crush of stimuli, they bled into the pain that thrummed in his chest, and for a time he just let himself drift.

The void hanging before him was colossal, infinite and yet somehow claustrophobic, vast and strangling, those motes of light crawled with a macabre sentience within it: they laughed, they smiled, they _mocked_. They whispered in their dream-mangled tongues, all distorted and indistinct, and they dragged up things better left alone.

For amid that blackness radiance suddenly spilled forth; pain lurched in Maedhros’ chest, the motes shivered and contorted and died before him, and in their wake there sprung a world. 

Upon the grand alabaster steps of his father’s house Maedhros sat, his hands were so small in his lap, and a child’s scowl crossed his brows as he glared out over the gardens. The trees before him were barren, they stood like bones nibbled clean of flesh and their shadows writhed under skies streaked in crimson and sickly mauve, all gaudy and pallid and wrong. Uneasily he looked upon them, but then footsteps sounded behind him, and hurt flared low in his stomach. 

“Go away!” he cried, and for a moment the dream faltered, everything tilted like a ship keeling to its ruin, but as it refocused suddenly his mother was sitting there beside him. Garbed in robes of cream cloth she gazed down upon him; gentle and ancient and powerful, but from her Maedhros turned his face.

“Now,” she began, “that was not a very noble thing to say, Nelyo. I have sent Riri and Darro home, but Káno is still very upset…”

“I don’t care.”

Under the visceral skies Maedhros glowered; hurt gnawed at his chest and with it the garden withered, and something sadistic in him yearned to see it suffer for his pain.

“That is not very kind,” his mother murmured, and hatred erupted through his heart.

“I don’t want to be kind!” he shouted; a haze of violence brimmed in his blood, the skies above thickened like turgid veins, and bathed in the arterial light he spat, “Káno’s so stupid, and all he does is cry! He wants to play with us but he _can’t_ , they’re _my_ friends, and we don’t want him!”

“I know, Nelyo…” His mother’s voice was but a ghostly lilt in his ears; rage tumbled in his heart but his mother’s serenity helped soothe him, and wrath slowly dimmed to dull resentment in his heart. “But he only wants to join you. He adores you so, and it would be nice if you would let him play, even for a little while.” 

It hurt so much to talk through the ache in his chest, the skies grew drear and festering above, all mauve and maroon like dried blood upon a stone, and it felt as if something in him was being wrenched apart as he croaked, “I don’t want to be nice.” 

Everything was so still, so deathly calm; his mother seemed not even to breathe beside him and from where came the sorrow that welled up in him he did not know. He knew only that his voice cracked with emotion as he said, “Being nice is stupid…” 

“That is an untruth,” his mother sighed, she took him by the hand and though pain spasmed through him tightly he clutched to her. “You must be kind to your brother,” she breathed, “for he loves you so very much, and to be spurned so cruelly is an injury…”

Distant then grew his mother’s words; faint and faded as if with a great distance, and the reassuring warmth of her fingers closed upon his began to slip. 

“You must be kind in this life, my little prince,” she whispered, and how desperately he tried to cling to her as she fell away; the skies reeled overhead all bile-yellow and blank and washed out and horrible, agony burned upon his chest as frantically he twisted, such awful, gutting panic bolted through him as still she left him, she abandoned him and he wanted to _scream_. She was gone, she was gone, she had left him there, and the stones crumbled and the trees were lopped upon the lawns and he was there all alone, no more than a frightened child surrounded by her memory and the dim horror of the world. 

_“You must be kind, Nelyo, and people will treat you with kindness in return.”_

 

* * *

 

From the mire of a dream Maedhros staggered back into wakefulness, a cry of anguish clotting upon his lips. A bleary light struggled overhead as his eyes blinked open, shadows hung heavily from a low, slate ceiling and below them he whimpered. For with the coming of consciousness agony unfurled upon his chest; so greatly he wished to just curl himself up, to clutch that pain into himself and smooth it all away, but as instinct spurred him to shift, the bite of manacles snapping taut about his wrists brought him up painfully short.

For at the sides of his waist his wrists were tethered; short, sturdy lengths of chain bound them fast to the sides of the cot where he lay, and with that awful realisation a moan of distress bubbled up in his throat. As hard as he could he wrenched against his bonds, pain blazed across his left pectoral muscle as his chest strained, but though he rocked and twisted and fought he could not tear himself free from those grasping manacles. The cropped strands of his hair itched against his cheeks as for a moment he lay still; a terrified bleat of panic, of _denial_ , sounded low and urgent in his throat as he registered the unfamiliar, rough-spun breeches that garbed him, the dour confines of the cell that hemmed him close, the carven archway set into in the wall a few paces from his feet that yawned open to a lit corridor outside. 

He was a captive, he was made prisoner in the lair of his enemy; in that moment it was all so horribly real, but something in him would not believe it, _it could not be real_ ; he gritted his teeth as his back arched against the mattress, he ground the bruised flesh of his wrists against the manacles until he felt that he might rip bones from their sockets. The agony that seared across his chest soon became unbearable, the cuffs upon him would not give an inch, and with a muffled sob at last he slumped back to stillness. 

A lumpy pillow cradled his head, and as anxious minutes rolled by at last he rallied, delicately he manoeuvred himself a little more upright and he dared to look down at himself, at the thing that throbbed over his chest.

The sight of it halted the breath in his lungs.

A foul, knotted insignia was burned deep into his flesh, skin shone raw and pink and traumatised at its gnarled epicentre and blackened away to swollen, blistered edges, and nausea rolled in his stomach to behold it. _Livestock_ , drummed the hateful thought, it bolted through him before he could stop it: he was branded, marked, just a thing, property, a beast, a slave, a slave, _a_ _slave_ , a thing made warped in its own body; unclean, unloved. Desperately he turned his face away: it could not be real, his mind screeched, his head slammed back against the pillow as so desperately he tried to wake up, it was just another nightmare, it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real, he would wake up, he _had_ to wake up -  

The scuff of boots upon the flagstones sent panic sparking through his veins; it set the chains chattering as once more he twisted his wrists within them. Bravery and terror waged their paralysing war within him as so desperately he wanted to hide himself as a pair of orcs strode through the archway, to just curl himself up as a beaten dog cowers from its abuser, yet beneath that frailty something sterner bound him fast. For beneath the dawning horror of it all anger unfurled in his stomach, and he nursed it there, and he let its power suffuse him. For how dare the Moringotto think to treat him thusly, how dare Morgoth and his thralls lay vile hands upon him, and he clasped that fury to him like a shield as the orcs approached.   

“ _Snaga’s_ awake _,”_ one said thickly; a broad-shouldered uruk whose skin was the colour of soured milk. Black veins writhed up the expanse of its bared arms, its skin possessed an eerie, translucent hue that was strangely mesmerising, and at its comment the other orc nodded. A tray was grasped within the smaller orc’s hands, for a moment the pair spoke together in their own garbled tongue, and as the orc laid the tray down upon the stones hatred flared in Maedhros’ innards. 

He wriggled himself as far back in his restraints as his bruised wrists would allow, and venomously he hissed, “Don’t touch me.” 

The uruk glowered down at him, but blandly the orc regarded him; its murky, reddened irises skated his bared torso and the brand standing livid upon his skin, and balefully he glared back at it. A stained bandoleer was buckled across its robed chest; vials and bottles and myriad little jars peeped out from within those intricate folds of leather, and as it plucked out a small vessel of brown liquid Maedhros recoiled. 

The uruk snarled something then, and in an indifferent tone the orc replied, and wide-eyed with confusion and mounting dismay he watched as the uruk gathered up several squares of gauze from the tray and wadded them together in its hands. The orc probed gently at his chest, and as it brushed over the inflamed skin of the brand a convulsive grunt of discomfort punched past his teeth.

Swiftly then the uruk passed over the bundled gauze, the orc drenched it in the brown contents of its vial, and without warning it grasped Maedhros’ shoulder. With a force far stronger than its slight build implied it pinned him back into the mattress, and swiftly pressed the soaked gauze down atop the brand. A shrill cry of pain clawed up his throat, it transmuted to a series of grim, hurting whimpers as the blazing sting of the liquid dissolved into his flesh, for it felt as though scalding oil had been tipped over him. Fitfully he jerked as the orc squeezed into the cloth and sent dark fluid sluicing across his chest, but the growl that echoed about the cell severed such pitiful motions.

“Lie still.”

Rank sweat plastered the hair to his cheeks when at last the orc removed the gauze, it peeled the cloth free amid strands of flaking, dying flesh, and Maedhros gasped as even the tepid air of the cell seemed to needle through such sensitive skin. The wound upon him was ghastly, it drew the eye no matter how much he loathed to look upon it, all brown and red and slurried in gore, and as the orc turned to him again with something new clasped in its hand, desperately he shook his head.

“No,” he bleated, raw flesh spurted blood and colourless plasma as violently he started, as he tried to haul himself away. “No! No, don’t… Don’t touch me! _Don’t touch me!”_

“ _Thralkûn, snaga_ ,” the uruk rumbled; the orc’s eyes were merciless as once more it gripped him, but beneath it Maedhros thrashed. 

“Calm,” the orc murmured, but Maedhros scarcely heard it. 

“No!” he cried; a grainy, pungent paste slicked the orc’s fingers, he could not let it touch him, he couldn’t, and a wordless noise of anguish bled from him as despite his struggles the orc smeared the salve across the brand. For a swift, brutal moment it burned, but though he shuddered beneath it slowly he felt that pain recede, agony blunted away into soothing numbness as the analgesic salve took strong effect, and despite himself he slumped in relief. 

Deeply, freely then he breathed; reddened marks showed across his shoulder as the orc unhanded him, but Maedhros could not feel them for the bliss that rolled through him, for the glorious sensation of for one moment simply not being in pain. And how weak it was, some bitter part of him thought, how stupid, how craven, for as relief flowed through him so too did gratitude, and in this place there was no emotion more dangerous. Yet still a simpering moan flitted over his lips, and down upon him then the orc smiled. 

Laminate folds of shark-like, serrated teeth glistened in the light, and in some grotesque parody of sympathy it leaned forward to tap him gently upon the nose. 

“Better now,” it murmured; and such was the bliss that rolled through Maedhros then that he could only manage some mewling, wordless noise in reply. But that small effort seemed enough, for contentedly the orc wiped free the excess liquid from his chest, and swiftly it and the uruk made to depart. 

But as he watched the orcs pack up the tray and move toward the archway something urgent rose in him, and suddenly he called, “Wait!” 

His voice sounded distorted in his ears, numb pressure throbbed in his chest and it was so hard to focus, to push the words from his throat. “Wait, I… I want to speak to someone, please…”

The orcs merely blinked at him; the ruddy light from the corridor outside silhouetted them in a shimmering, evanescent halo. 

“Please,” Maedhros gulped, “please, I can’t… I… this is a mistake, _this is a mistake_ , please… I need to speak to… to Gothmog, or…” The name shivered in all its unpleasantness upon his lips, but desperation wrenched it forth. “Or to Mairon, _please_ …”

For a long moment the orcs were silent; they glanced disparagingly at each other and then the smaller one spoke. 

“You make no demands here,” it said, and strode out of the cell with the uruk in tow, and dismay slammed through Maedhros’ heart. 

“No!” he screamed, as best as he could he tore at his restraints. “No! No, please, _please_ …” But as the orcs’ footsteps receded so too did the conviction of his protest, and limply he fell back against the mattress. It could not be real, his mind trilled, Káno could not have done it, he could not have just left him here, yet with each passing hour the inescapable truth bore down upon him, and behind it came only despair. And suddenly the slate ceiling above him was all too much to behold, nausea and hurt and helplessness and sweet, sickening numbness rolled together in his stomach, and he simply closed his eyes against the awfulness of them all.

He must have drifted away into some uneasy dream, for the clunk of something heavy upon stone jerked him back to alertness, and warily he blinked up as the smaller orc from before knelt beside him. Cocooned in his fatigue and hate and sorrow he laid there as it assessed the salve upon him, which had crusted into a coarse, protective skein atop the brand. Dismally he watched as that skein was slowly wiped away, it cracked and flaked to reveal the raw flesh below, but to his surprise the wound was far cleaner in hue, swollen and painful still but far less angry, and at it the orc clucked approvingly. It moved aside then, and beckoned the ashen-skinned uruk forward, who sat heavily upon the side of the cot and peered intently down at him. Its eyes were so strange, Maedhros thought, green and bright amid the milky skin of its face, but it was the bowl cradled in its lap that drew his attention far more keenly. 

“Hungry?” the uruk growled; a richly scented stew it swirled through with a wooden spoon, and as sudden hunger cramped through Maedhros’ guts, reluctantly he nodded. The positioning was awkward, no release from his bonds was he afforded nor aid in rising, and it was a conscious effort not to choke on each mouthful that the uruk spooned past his lips. But eagerly he ate, and the uruk was patient, and gradually the heat of the stew seemed to invigorate weary muscles and greatly staunched his mood. 

 _“Skur, snaga. Skurva,”_ the uruk crooned; it wiped away a dribble of broth from his cheek as a mouthful went awry, but at its touch he flinched. Its tenderness galled him, it was _wrong_ , all wrong, but the uruk did not seem to notice his dissidence, a fresh spoonful of stew lingered before him and shakily he opened his lips to receive it. Eventually he finished the bowl, and though his chest and wrists ached with the strain of it he wriggled himself as upright as he could as the uruk pressed a cup of water to his lips. Gratefully he drank, his eyes fluttered shut with the rapture of clean water flowing over his tongue, and softly the uruk murmured, _“Skurva, snaga.”_  

A shard of resentment turned in Maedhros’ stomach, though he did not know precisely what the uruk said its tone dredged up nothing but disgust in him, and as he drained the last of the water bitterly he subsided. 

“Don’t call me that,” he muttered; he glared sullenly up at the uruk who set the cup aside and stared at him quizzically, its startling green eyes narrowed. And affixed by that gaze rebellion rose in Maedhros’ blood; refreshed by nourishment both the strength and will to resist flooded back to him, a scowl turned over his face and at the uruk he spat, “I am not a slave.” 

Coldly the uruk regarded him, menace bristled in the slow clench of its shoulders, and as the other orc at last moved back over to him with a small pewter pot in its hand, fury sparked in Maedhros’ heart. 

“Do you hear me?” he hissed, he jerked against the chains that held him, arrogantly he tilted his chin and haughty was his tone as he said, “I am not a slave!”

A growl emanated from the uruk’s throat, and _good_ , Maedhros thought, let it react to him, let it be provoked, let one small thing that he did in this place have some kind of impact not preordained, but swiftly the smaller orc intervened. Admonishingly it clicked at the both of them, it chided them as one would a stubborn horse, and as the uruk quietened then it looked sharply to Maedhros and intoned, “Settle.” 

“No!” The cry tore itself from his lips before truly he intended it to, and as the orc snarled at him then the effort of his passivity became all too much; renewed fervour coursed in his veins, something exploded in his chest, something ugly and hot and clamouring and glazed over in red, and viciously he kicked out. “ _Get away from me_!” 

Mania lent strength to his motions, he scratched and tore at the manacles about his wrists, he thrashed like some rabid animal unwillingly caged, he all but bit at the orcs’ fingers as they reached soothingly for him. 

“Get away!” he screamed, he jerked and shook in his bonds, and desperately he cried, “Don’t touch me! Don’t…” 

A wordless noise of frustration scoured his throat as the manacles still would not give, but roughly then the uruk seized him about the shoulders and pinned him down into the mattress. 

“No!” he moaned, “no, let me go! _Let me go!”_  

Blood smeared across his chest as he writhed within its grip, fragile skin tore open but he didn’t care, they would not have him, he was not theirs, he was not just some thing to hurt, to heal and abuse and injure all over again, _he was not a slave_ , and furiously he struggled as the uruk shifted to sit astride his waist and hold him down.    

“ _Thralkûn_ ,” the uruk murmured, its tone was placating but Maedhros would not hear it. He sobbed and gagged with thwarted rage as the uruk slammed his shoulders into the bed, as its hands locked about his upper arms. 

“No!” he choked; horror scourged through his veins as the orc extracted a slender vial of liquid from its bandoleer, and as it unstopped the vessel cold panic flooded through Maedhros’ stomach. 

“No, no, stop!” he cried, he begged, he clenched his jaw shut as the uruk relinquished its grip upon his left arm, and instead lifted its thick fingers to his face. Hard they dug into his cheeks, hard enough to bruise; he grunted and whined as they sought to worm about his jaw, and to his utter dismay at last those iron fingers pried his mouth open. Some hideous slick of liquid the orc poured down his throat, he retched and spat as its foul taste lingered upon his tongue, he would have spat it right back into their faces, but a hand clamped resolutely down over his mouth and nose and forced him to swallow. A miserable squeak bubbled up in his throat as his airways closed, a few tormented seconds passed but as he truly began to asphyxiate at last he surrendered, and all too swiftly he felt the effects of whatever potion they had administered.

For though his mind railed and screamed against it slowly his extremities numbed, clenched limbs fell limp and torpid against the mattress as waves of exhaustion rolled through him. They could not do this, he thought, they couldn’t… he was not a thing, he was… he wasn’t… His thoughts came sluggish as upon the pillow his head lolled; the uruk’s hands and seat upon him were suddenly ephemeral, it seemed as though he might float right through them, he might dissolve away into the very fabric of Arda and there might find peace, but then everything dimmed out into blackness, and for a while he was lost.

 

* * *

 

Minutes, hours, days: they all blurred into one insensate tessellation of time, of voices, of motion-slurs and the giddy whorls of touch. Fragments of conversation drawled about him, sharp syllables came all viscous and distorted through his head. “Nar”, an orc growled, its shadowed silhouette pounded in the archway before Maedhros’ glazed eyes. “Skin was peelin’ off ‘im, big chunks all rotted, putrefied like… Ach, Caurûn said ‘s poison in the earth, something the captains want for the war…” Light spilled through the cell, glaring red and angry, it felt like the air might split apart and fall into its brightness, and into it Maedhros tumbled.

Deliriously he dreamed, or glimpsed, or remembered: hands pressed a salve upon his chest and it felt like insects scuttling across his skin, it felt like Finno’s gentle hands upon him one tremulous, flurried time, all embarrassed breaths and trembling fingers, those hideous, wondrous sensations melded within him and so greatly he wished that he could just gouge them out. “Wish they’d fuckin’ hurry up,” a wheedling voice pouted.  “The lords have other things in mind,” another growled, all nasal and breathy, “other occupations, see? The lieutenant is pressed hard enough, Nasrir, you seen the bruises on him?” And the earth seemed to tilt, to keel to its side, _“you must be kind, Nelyo,”_ and in its horrific revolution he was trapped; the words pounded like a mantra in his head all murky and secret but then suddenly hands were touching him. 

They prickled upon his skin, his head turned with the gargantuan effort of protesting: it was so much easier to sleep, to dream, to just let it happen. “Who’s this little maggot, then?” a voice said, and fitfully Maedhros stirred as fingers traced his bared ankle, they drew sickening little spirals about the knob of bone there. “He’s a nice one, hmm?” And though he tried to pull away it only felt like he was drowning, that touch seemed to spread through him, pollute him, the waters closed over his head and he couldn’t breathe but, “Leave off, scum!” a deeper voice bellowed then, and how terribly grateful Maedhros was for it. “He is not for you! Away with you, away!” 

And he was so far away; callous hands smeared a bitter-smelling paste upon his chest but gentle was Finno’s voice in his ears. “It’s so dark, Nelyo,” he whispered, “it’s like the stars have died,” and Maedhros didn’t want to hear his voice but so desperately he craved it, guilt and desire and need and disgust all smashed together and came undone, golden ribbon wrapped all soft and seductive around his throat, and then it began to squeeze. “Nelyo,” Finno whispered, over and over he whispered his name, “Nelyo, Nelyo, Nelyo,” and that ribbon pulled tighter, fingers scrabbled and muscles clenched, “ _you were not so kind to me,_ ” and fitfully Maedhros twitched, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, terror clove through his heart and backwards then he fell, into the black strands of oblivion that swaddled him at their chest and tore him apart. 

It was the jabber of voices and the scrape of metal that wrested Maedhros from haunted dreams, and sent him skidding back into a reality that brought him no reprieve. Clammy sweat dampened his hair to his forehead and cheeks, blearily he blinked his eyes open and as the opiate haze receded the dreary cell swam back into clarity. His tongue felt thick and swollen in his mouth, his head spun as the last effects of that awful sedative seeped from him, but after a few fortifying moments at last he looked to the uruks who stood at his side. 

Without warning one stooped to hold him; groggily, clumsily he tried to push himself away, but the manacles affixed still around his wrists jerked him to a painful halt. Roughly the uruk seized him by the hair, its fingers knotted hard into his scalp and panic broke through him then, he all but dangled from the uruk’s fingers as it yanked him upwards into a sitting position, and a miserable little yelp edged over his lips as the room reeled before his eyes with the force of that motion. Yet amid that delirium one thing pierced with clarity, his eyes flared wide as the thick metal band of a collar was brandished before his face.   

“No,” he moaned, he squirmed and shook in the uruk’s grip but with grievous indifference his captor ignored him, it flicked open the collar upon some concealed hinge, and blank despair careened through Maedhros’ heart as he felt that cold metal encircle his neck. And though every muscle in him ached he writhed as they tugged the collar closed; he hissed and spat like a feral cat but viciously then the uruk grappled his head backwards. It left his throat so terribly exposed, the tendons in his neck corded as still he struggled, but such pitiful insurrections were ignored as the uruk snapped the collar shut, and a word of power shimmered upon the air. 

“ _Krimpaz,”_ the uruk spat, the word blistered into the metal and bound it fast, and Maedhros only whimpered as he was discarded. The collar weighed so awfully upon him, unnatural and grasping, and misery lulled him to stillness as the uruk tilted his chin, as it affixed a sturdy leather leash through the iron ring bolted to the collar’s front. It could not be real, he thought numbly, this was wrong, this was _debased_ , but such thoughts soon drowned out in the despair that engulfed him; the uruks unfastened the manacles about his wrists and he could not find the will to fight them. 

Something else then they said, and blankly Maedhros looked at them, before his arms were seized anew and his traumatised wrists fastened into thick cuffs that pinioned them tightly together before his stomach. 

“Come,” an uruk barked suddenly, a yank upon the leash sent Maedhros tipping forwards, and quickly his captors jostled him to his feet. In their grip he swayed for a moment, his legs barely had the strength to hold him as days of fear and pain and drugged stupors took their toll, but as another tug upon the leash sent him stumbling forwards he staggered to right himself. 

Breathe; he told himself, he clung to the words like a prayer as he was drawn out into the corridor beyond, they crooned through his mind to stifle the panic that squalled beneath them. Just breathe, he thought, establish a rhythm and follow it, and it would be all right, everything would be all right, count your breaths like a heartbeat and endure. _Endure_. But his heartbeat came all wrong and skittery in his ears; the gloom of the corridor was oppressive, all imposing architecture carved of glossy black stone, and his bare feet shivered upon the cold obsidian tiles.

For many minutes he trailed his captor through Angband’s upper hallways, and though dread knotted in his stomach, with wide-eyed curiosity he gazed upon the world that surrounded him, and somehow that inquisitiveness seemed to calm him slightly. For here he strode through things out of legends, Angamando’s corridors laid bare in their malevolence and their grandeur, at once austere and opulent. Rich, red drapes hung like swathes of blood from the walls, and between them countless doors were studded into the stone, and what lay behind them Maedhros scarcely dared to think. For though he had scoffed at the wilder rumours in his youth, of secret caverns of torment, twisted workshops and grim furnaces, cells where bodies lay strewn like shrapnel, dissected and left for the flies, all too real now they seemed, and the threat of them gnawed at him.

Upon aching legs he followed the uruk down a tightly spiralling staircase, he near gripped onto the leash for balance as those descending steps became dizzying, but as at last they spilled out into a wide corridor, courage flowed once more in Maedhros’ blood. The brand upon his chest was a relentless discomfort yet he scarcely heeded it, he stared out in awe at the colossal hallway that reared up about him, its immense pillars arching gracefully overhead like the ribcage of a leviathan sung into stone. A swift tug upon the leash set him walking, and soon enough he found himself pressing into the uruk’s heels as the corridor grew busy and the eyes of Angband’s denizens fell upon him. Hungrily they beheld him, the greed in their eyes was all too keen, and Maedhros kept his eyes fixed resolutely to the uruk’s back before him as he was led so reluctantly through their midst. 

Yet as the corridor cleared towards its wayward end he found himself lagging; he glanced to a small, unassuming stairwell that yawned open within the wall to his left, and an inexplicable sense of yearning clawed through his heart. Narrow and dark the entranceway was, yet how ardently he wished to go there, to wander those stairs and embrace whatever should come after. It was hypnotic almost, a predatory languor hung upon the air and it cozened sense to madness, it beckoned, it _begged_ for him to come; come, elf lord, it crooned, feast and lie, rot and revel, and craving wrenched in Maedhros’ innards. A single cobweb hung from the stone frame of the archway, a fat spider glutted itself upon a struggling fly enmeshed within it, but beyond it the darkness was entrancing, alluring, _devastating_ , and as one stricken dumb Maedhros stumbled towards it. Wit fled him as that temptation beckoned, with the blind half-focus of a drunkard he lurched towards that opening and its promise of bliss, but suddenly the leash snapped taut. The collar jammed hard into his throat and snatched him backwards, he spluttered as its impact collided with sensitive flesh, and into his captor’s waiting arms he all but fell.

“Must not go that way,” the uruk snarled, its eyes squinted in mistrust at the shadowed stairwell. Dumbly Maedhros blinked at it, yearning tolled in his heart, but the uruk shook him then, hard, and with that violence some sense of awareness filtered back to him.

“Evil thing there,” the uruk said, it pushed its face all close and hot and panting into Maedhros’ own. “Sew up your pretty lips, it would. No noise there. _Burzum, lornska_. No light. No light but shadows, and silence.”

The craving in his heart dimmed then, it was replaced only with a lurking unease, and the uruk barked with laughter. Quickly it unhanded him and tugged him away, onwards down a wide stairway set opposite that ghastly passage.

As they traversed through Angband’s lower corridors the populace thickened; soldiery, courtiers and citizens of manifold forms swirled about them in one frightening, disorienting tangle. Lips curled back to bare fangs filed sharp, mutters and smirks and laughter dogged Maedhros’ footsteps but grimly he endured their scorn, he set his jaw and he looked through all who would degrade him as if they were made of glass. Orcs, goblins, beasts, he would not allow them to daunt him, but he could not truly stifle the disquiet that cramped in his stomach as a strange spirit loped up to stroll beside him. Like a monstrosity spilled from a child’s nightmare it was, its body that of a strong _ner_ save for its hoary, fawn-like legs cleft in neat hooves, and its head mounted upon a muscled neck like some grisly hunting trophy. No flesh it bore across its face, instead ivory gleamed in the visage of a boar’s skull left skinned and raw; dim, reddened eyes glowed from within hollowed fenestrae, and a barbed tongue lolled from its jaws left agape and drooling. 

With a languid, disturbing gait it trailed Maedhros along the corridor, for one terrible moment it pressed its bony nostrils to the nape of his neck and with a gust of hot breath simply inhaled him, and at that horrific sensation Maedhros shivered. A deep, unnatural note sounded from deep within the creature’s chest, fresh saliva glistened upon its tusks, long strands of it dripped down to the marble below, and blowing hard through its nostrils then the creature slapped him upon the arse. Desperately he stifled the squeak of dismay that bubbled up in his throat, the spirit’s touch upon him was _vile_ , and sick, clamouring relief poured through him as the uruk tugged him swiftly around a corner, and the beast slunk away. 

Down a vast hallway that Maedhros thought familiar the uruk pulled him, but as the sight of the abhorrent doors to the Moringotto’s throne room reared into view dismay curdled in his blood. The immense doors stood slitted open and freely the guards let them pass, but it was not without inconsiderable force that Maedhros was pulled through that shadowed aperture. For with each passing step malevolence seemed to redouble in the air, it throbbed in the brand across his chest; here in the dark heart of Angband evil was sunken into the very stones, it sapped strength and cowed bravery, and Maedhros gritted his teeth to keep from crying out as the pressure of it clenched within his temples like a screw drilled through bone.

Through a crowd of idling courtiers he was drawn, he kept his eyes fixed firmly to the marble below his feet as the malice of their gazes fell upon him as a tangible weight, and all too keenly it was reinforced just how alone he was in that vast, brooding hall. He felt all too much like a lamb led amongst prowling wolves, dragged before the greatest of them and hobbled for the slaughter. For far too quickly the dais swept up before him; the Moringotto glowered down from his throne and his lieutenant stood stiffly at his right hand, and before them Maedhros faltered. The brand upon him seared into his flesh as if it was done anew, fear squalled in his blood no matter how hard he tried to calm it, but uncaringly the uruk hauled him up the stairs and roughly forced him to his knees before the throne. 

For a moment then everything was still, the leash dangled humiliatingly down Maedhros’ front as the uruk bowed and withdrew; the court awaited their lord’s reaction upon baited breath and with an indolent sneer at last the Moringotto obliged them. 

 _“Ah,”_ he drawled; it seemed as if a wave of pestilence rolled forth in his tone, and from it Maedhros recoiled. _“It seems our lordly guest deigns to visit us from his convalescence.”_

He blanched as Morgoth’s voice echoed in his ears, it hovered in the air just longer than its natural wont, and hard he knitted his fingers together in his bonds to stop them from visibly shaking. For though terror bucked in him so too did rage, betrayal and fear waged their war within him but one wrested him to its mastery, and though the eyes of his enemy were near unbearable upon him at last Maedhros forced himself to raise his head and meet them.

But how cruelly then Morgoth smiled, and smoothly he arose, and it was all that Maedhros could do not to shy away as he neared, as the blinding annulus of the Silmarils washed over him and illumined only that which was unclean. Gluttonously the lord appraised him, fingers charred black suddenly reached for his chin, and a sadistic sneer rolled across the Moringotto’s lips as slowly he arched Maedhros’ head back. 

 _“Though,”_ the lord mused; the brand upon Maedhros’ chest seemed to bubble and blister afresh, _“not so lordly anymore._ _You bear my mark so beautifully, Maitimo. In time you should be proud that I have favoured you thusly.”_

Anger pulsed in Maedhros’ stomach, defiance gripped him then and as forcefully as he could he ripped himself free from Morgoth’s grip.

“I seek no favour from you, Black-hand,” he spat. “The marks of your sin stain you, and greatly I hope that my heirlooms see you aggrieved. For they in their beauty are ill-befitting of a beast like you.”

An awful silence descended then; darkest ire clotted in the air as for a moment the Moringotto stood rigid, his lieutenant bridled and started but one step forwards, and with his motion everything slammed back into life. And it took every ounce of Maedhros’ willpower not to cry out as Morgoth twisted, as with the full force of his body the lord clouted him across the face. 

Upon his knees Maedhros staggered, he near collapsed to his side with the horrific force of that blow, but before he could even begin to recover himself swiftly the Moringotto grasped him. He wrenched him upwards by the hair; blood streamed from Maedhros’ nose most likely broken by that blow and he gasped as it dripped down over his lips, as the lord growled, _“How swiftly our graces are stripped away, when one is put into their rightful place.”_  

His knees jarred into the marble as Morgoth relinquished him, the breath rattled all wet and hurting and sticky into his lungs as for a moment he spluttered, he raised his bound hands to wipe away the worst of the blood from his throbbing face, and how viciously then the Moringotto smiled.

 _“So then, elf lord, let us repay graciousness in kind.”_

With that the lord nodded, and two hefty Valaraukar stepped forward from the assembly, their scorching hands locked about Maedhros’ arms and dragged him to his feet, they spun him about and horror seethed in his heart to glimpse what might befall him. For a team of orcs were clustered upon the farthest edge of the dais; two scraped back a great marble tile from the floor to reveal a host of deadbolts and fastenings below, and up the stairs a company hauled a thick wooden post, before securing it tightly into the floor. 

“ _The crimes of your family have defiled mine earth,”_ the Moringotto intoned; desperately Maedhros twisted in the Valaraukar’s grips as they hauled him towards that post, as he glimpsed the manacles and iron fastenings that studded into its sides, as the waiting malice of it seemed to drown him. “ _Your father paid me great insult once, and how fitting now that such slights might be redressed.”_

“No!” It was scarcely a word that bleated over Maedhros’ lips, more a terrified noise of blank refusal as his bare feet skidded across the marble no matter how hard he might struggle. “No, no no no, stop! Stop!” He kicked, he bucked, he fought his captors with every ounce of panicked strength that he possessed, but his pleas fell upon uncaring ears, and with brutal purpose the Valaraukar stretched his arms high. Into a metal ring near the top of the post they slotted his manacles and bound them fast; the strain of the position pulled uncomfortably through his shoulders and arms, it left his back so terribly exposed and his chest scraping across the rough wood before him as still he struggled. 

The cuffs dug into his wrists bruised down to the bone, blood inched down the back of his throat in the wake of that awful slap before, and a keen of horror bubbled up through it as the Moringotto proclaimed, “ _Witness now, servants and soldiery all. The lord of our enemy I lay bare before you, king of the craven Noldor who in their arrogance lay siege to these lands, and for the insurrections of his kindred now might he face consequence. Think fiercely now, you citizens of Angband’s mighty halls, for this elf and his people would have seen yourselves as but thralls before them. Nay, more base still: he would have stolen from you your lands, your property, your lives. He would have expunged your very memory from this earth!”_

Mutters and jeers broke from the assembled crowd but Maedhros scarcely heard them; there was nothing but the pant of his breath and the frantic beat of his heart as Morgoth continued, “ _The line of Finwë is nothing but a blight upon Arda’s face, and at last one small chance for an exorcism has come. With Fëanáro many of you are acquainted, for his infamy precedes him in all things, and in conceit not the least. Greatly I had desired to extend to him my hospitality, my gratitude, even, for gifts so lovingly parted. Yet ever the wretch would snatch from me my pleasures, the pleasures owed to all who labour in my name, and it is no secret now that he committed the grave discourtesy of perishing before our noble captains might lay hand upon him.”_

A grumble rolled through the assembly at that; fangs were bared and curses spat, but decadently then the Moringotto purred, “ _It seems his eldest whelp shall have to suffice.”_

Obscene pleasure roiled in the lord’s eyes as he strode before Maedhros then, and at the flourish of his hand a whip was pressed into his palm. Cold, unspeakable horror knotted in Maedhros’ innards at the sight of it; it was _barbaric_ , a cruel, many-stranded thing strung with little flints of metal at the tip of each lash, and desperately, futilely Maedhros wrenched at his bonds as the Moringotto turned it. Those shards of metal flashed hungrily in the gloom, they clattered out their waiting malevolence in the hand of their lord, and as Morgoth stalked behind him frantically Maedhros bit down the panic that surged in his blood. And from where he found the composure to steel himself he did not know, for something powerful seemed to grip him then, it silenced quailing _fëa_ and fortified _hröa_ : resolve settled like a leaden weight within his stomach and it banished all lesser emotions.

For though his enemies might hurt him he would not be swayed by them, though cruelty was dealt he would not yield to it, Fëanor’s son in spirit and body then he stood and by threat of pain he would not be broken. _Lá axan, lá melmë, lá lár maciliva,_ _caurë hya raxë, lá mandë imma_ _,_ _varyuva quén Fëanáronna, ar nossenna Fëanáro;_ in fire and wrath those were the words that he had sworn, and they bound him more tightly than any mortal chain. Tersely then he gritted his teeth: he would not beg for clemency, never would he stoop so low as to lick a plea of mercy into Morgoth’s blackened fingers, _never_ , the Oath pounded through his blood and from it he throttled his resolutions, he bore them like armour to mask the fear that churned in his stomach.

The first slice of the whip was horrifying; red, fizzing stars smashed across his vision, pain exploded across his back as those little shards of metal clove bloody furrows through his skin. It sent him staggering forward into the post with its sheer impact; desperately he bit down the shriek that clawed up his throat, but he scarcely had time to draw in a ragged breath before the whip cracked across his lower back, and an ugly grunt of pain punched out of his lungs.

It echoed in all of its disgrace through the throne room, a host of eyes gleefully beheld the blood that already began to drool down his back, but as best as he could then he scraped himself together. His hands clenched into gaunt fists within his bonds as the Moringotto slashed across his shoulders; the whip’s strands sprayed out across his spine, his arms, again and again it crashed down upon him, and his jaw clenched into a grimace as the agony of it only intensified.

It was not so bad – _CRACK –_ it was not – _CRACK –_ it was not so… so bad - _CRACK_ – it hurt so much to keep that mantra running through his head, and as time and again the whip snared through mutilated flesh he felt that will begin to erode. Acrid bile bubbled up his throat as metal cleaved through already torn-open skin, he twitched and jerked like a ragdoll at the strings of some sadistic puppeteer as bloodied welts patterned crazily across his back; an angled blow sent a howl punching over his lips as the lashes clipped into the sensitive sides of his ribs. His vision speckled over all carcinogen reds and abyssal shadows, his fists shook as agony redoubled in him, but the Moringotto gave him no pause.

And Maedhros could almost feel the glee that thrummed in the air, blood splattered to the marble between his trembling legs and how luxuriously Morgoth smiled; the malevolence in the air was strangling, choking, and startled tears jumped to Maedhros’ eyes as a blow high upon his shoulders set him stumbling. His limbs shook with the stress of it all and no longer could he still them, exhaustion and shock ploughed through him as with each strike now the Moringotto stopped to admire his handiwork. It was all grotesque, weeping skin; there was nothing left across Maedhros’ back but redness, and as a savage blow ripped across his spine finally he slipped in earnest. Upon the floor made slick with his own fluids his knees buckled, painfully hard he dragged upon the manacles that bound his wrists, and it was only with some colossal effort of will that he found the strength to haul himself up again.

The concussive force of the whip sliced across him slammed a howl from his lungs; a series of desperate, bleating sobs followed in its wake as he twitched with that fresh agony, and though he did not see it, as a maelstrom of agile, cutting little blows hailed down upon him even Morgoth’s lieutenant turned his face away. Frantically though Maedhros sought to master himself, despite the pain that blazed in him with each tiny motion he drew a shaking breath into his lungs, and with such sickly triumph then the Moringotto gave pause. 

Blood sluiced to the floor as Morgoth reached forward, he seized Maedhros by the hair and slowly wrenched his head back, and how Maedhros groaned as ragged, ruined flesh was forced to contort so cruelly.

 _“What a disappointment, Maitimo,”_ the lord sneered. _“Is this all that Fëanáro’s bloodline can give? Perversity and weakness…”_

And it was so hard to concentrate; shock buzzed in Maedhros’ ears, phosphorescent motes of light flashed at the edges of his vision, but somehow still he found the strength to spit crimson saliva up into the Moringotto’s face.

 _“Insolent little wretch,”_ the lord growled; roughly he discarded Maedhros and left him to dangle, and with each word he clove the whip across his back. And no longer could Maedhros restrain the yelps that broke from him with each lash, the breath fluttered all shallow and beatless into his lungs. He scarcely registered the Moringotto stalking about to his front; it was only the handle of the whip knocking into his cheekbone that dragged him back to clarity. 

“ _Come, elfling, do not despair,”_ Morgoth smiled, and how Maedhros shuddered to see it. “ _For there are places far more sensitive…”_

With that the Moringotto stepped back, and one cruel, arching strike he slashed across Maedhros’ front. The lashes caught upon the post before him but still its shards carved their devastating way across his chest, his stomach, his groin; the sheer force of it felt as though he had been kicked clean in the guts, pressure and pain slammed through his torso and how he whined with the humiliation of it as far, far beyond voluntary control he felt his bladder void itself. And how the howls of the courtiers’ laughter crashed down upon him as he felt warmth come running down his legs, his cheek ground against the wood of the post as he sagged forward in his shame but he didn’t care, there was nothing but the utter degradation of that sodden heat between his thighs and the scorn in the Moringotto’s smile. 

“ _Pathetic,”_ the lord sneered, he stalked around to Maedhros’ back once more and scoured the whip over the flayed skin there, and it was far too late to stifle the sob of anguish that gasped over Maedhros’ lips. And with that first sob it was as the patter of rainfall that heralds the flood; again and again Morgoth struck him and under that onslaught he fell apart. Hopelessly he sobbed, feebly he twitched as pain erupted across his back, but as once more he slipped upon the mess beneath his feet he no longer had the strength to right himself. Limply he hung from his chains, and a gurgle of abject misery clotted in his throat as thrice more the whip clove over his spine. Blood soaked through his leggings; shock dredged the feeling from his limbs as waves of impending unconsciousness washed through him, but no such relief would the Moringotto grant him. 

For quickly Morgoth grasped him once more by the hair, weakly Maedhros scrabbled for purchase upon the floor as his back arched in the lord’s grip, and nothing but golden, exultant malice burned in the Moringotto’s eyes as he purred, “ _Would you beg now, Noldo? Would you plead for clemency?”_

A long silence reigned then, words seemed such an effort but thickly at last Maedhros gurgled, _“_ N-no.” Pain racked through his body, his vision slipped and blurred before his eyes, and hoarsely he croaked, “My… my f-father…”

 _“Your father was but a blemish on mine earth,”_ the Moringotto growled, _“and one so easily extinguished. And what then remains of his seed? A few miserable heirs to an undeserving crown. Yet how swiftly your kin disburdened you, elfling, they saw you for what you were: weakling, craven, warped by foul desires and a maudlin heart, and gladly they traded you away. Cruel, cunning Macalaurë, he sold you to us so that he might be king, you suffer here and merrily he wears your pretty crown.”_

“N-no…” Maedhros whimpered, “that’s… that’s a lie…” 

 _“Is it now?”_ Morgoth gloated, his eyes alight with glee. And how Maedhros screamed then as the lord ran his fingers across the flayed skin of his back, through peeling skin and ruptured muscle they slid, and came away slaked in crimson.

“ _Do you understand yet, elfling?”_ the Moringotto purred, he stepped aside to lift his fingers to Maedhros’ face and daubed a bright smear of blood across his lips. “ _There is nobody coming to save you. There is nobody left who cares.”_

Defeated tears trickled down Maedhros’ cheeks as the words sunk in, with two horrid fingers the Moringotto parted his lips and how he retched and gagged as fresh blood was slicked across his tongue.

“ _For what worth is there in just another thrall?”_ The Moringotto’s words were awful, unthinkable; weakly Maedhros tried to pull himself away but harder still the lord rammed his fingers down his throat; he left blood and metallic saliva frothing upon Maedhros’ lips. “ _A stupid little prince with no talents save for bedplay.”_

The shame in the Moringotto’s words cut down to the bone; desperately Maedhros whined out his refusal, his denial, he wept with the unbearable hurt of it all as with such vicious delight Morgoth unhanded him, and again the whip cracked down upon him. He simply jerked and twitched as agony flared across his back with each new strike; wordless little noises of distress tumbled out of his throat with each impact as exhaustion and stress stole the strength from his limbs.

How long it took for Morgoth’s lieutenant to step forward then he did not know; he gasped as the whip clawed through his shoulders, but dimly he heard the Maia begin, “My lord -”

 _“Hold your tongue, Mairon!”_ the Moringotto snapped; so cutting was his rebuke that both captive and lieutenant alike flinched. _“Or you shall take his place.”_

The impact of the whip smashed down upon him left him reeling with shock; convulsions rippled through him as he dangled in his bonds, his legs curled uselessly beneath him and his head lolling forwards onto his chest. The hall dimmed before him then, it speckled over in black and searing, blinding white as his eyes fluttered shut, and for how long then he drifted out of thought and feeling he did not know. 

But it was the soft hands brushing over his cheeks that called him back, they lifted his face so tenderly and it must have been Finno, he thought desperately, it was Finno, it was Finno come to take him home, come to make it all go away, it was such an effort to open his eyes, and what unfathomable horror clawed through his heart then as he saw only the lieutenant standing before him. 

A ragged, hysterical whimper curled in his chest as the Maia peered at him; a lungful of air he snatched as Mairon’s fingers tilted his chin and opened his airway, and as the whip tinkled impatiently behind him firmly the Maia said, “My lord, he will not live…” 

A derisive scoff clove through the air, but Mairon’s gaze was resolute, and contemptuous then was the Moringotto’s voice as he turned aside. “ _See that he does. I am not finished with him yet.”_

Piteously Maedhros whimpered, the air scraped with a blaze of pain into his lungs, but gentle still were the lieutenant’s hands upon him. 

“Hush now,” Mairon murmured, and beneath the Maia’s fingers Maedhros felt a faint swell of puissance flow forth. Silver and strange it rolled over him, it dulled his agony by a fraction and innervated limbs long since deadened, and how Maedhros gasped as even that slight relief elated him. 

Slowly Mairon’s grip upon him lessened so that he might carry his own head, and carefully then the Maia reached for the bonds about his wrists and deftly unclasped them. Once bereft of that support though Maedhros’ legs buckled, his knees crashed hard to the slippery floor and there he slumped, wretched and bleeding as agony compacted within him. 

With a grimace of distaste slowly the lieutenant moved to help him up, but the Maia’s hand had scarcely grasped his arm when coldly the Moringotto said, _“No.”_

“My lord?” 

“ _Leave him there to rot,”_ Morgoth sneered, and reluctantly Mairon obeyed; the Maia took Maedhros’ wrists and fastened them into a set of metal restraints bolted one each to the sides of the post, binding him there irrevocably on his knees. Grievously then Maedhros flinched as the whip clattered to the marble beside him, stained in his own blood it lay there like a coiled, ugly serpent. 

A spluttering sob caught in his throat as the lieutenant withdrew, he did not even have the strength to pull against his restraints as Morgoth curtly said, _“Come, Mairon, we have business elsewhere that must be attended.”_

The court emptied in the wake of its lords, and alone Maedhros was left in the brooding vastness of the hall, bloodied and shivering upon his knees. The mutilated skin of his back glistened red and raw in the gloom, tremors shook uncontrollably through his arms, his crumpled legs, his ravaged torso; exhaustion dragged at him and all too eagerly he slumped forward against the post, as best as he could he cradled his aching chest and face against it and he keened out his misery as agony pounded across his back. 

Delirious thoughts swirled through his mind; a series of exhausted, hysterical whimpers panted over his lips as shock and pain engulfed him, but suddenly his mother’s voice was there again, she looked down upon him huddled and broken in the mess of his own fluids and such unbearable pity was in her eyes.   

“You must be kind in this life, Nelyo,” she whispered, and _go away_ , he told her, go away, _just leave me alone_ , but her half-remembered words sliced far deeper than any whip ever could. 

“You must be kind, my little prince, and people will treat you with kindness in return.”

But before the world bled out into darkness and despair there was but one aching thought left in his head.

 _No,_ he thought _, you’re wrong. You’re wrong, ammë._

 _There is no kindness here._  

 

* * *

 

_Whew, well, that wasn't the nicest thing I've ever written but I hope everyone enjoyed the update nonetheless. And, of course, there's more to come as soon as possible! A note of reference: thanks to Quenya101 for their translation of the Oath of Fëanor into Quenya, and the line of it used here is attributable entirely to them. I am no linguist, but all elements of Orcish speech are my derivations from Tolkien's Black Speech as given in The Lord of the Rings, or entirely invented by myself. As usual, questions, comments, or concerns are very welcome either here or in the dark heart of my lair (markedasinfernal.tumblr.com)! Sincerely yours, theeventualwinner x_

 


	4. The Execution Chamber

The hours drew long in Angband’s mighty hall; flames hunkered low in their braziers and shadows bled down the walls, and beneath them Maedhros suffered. There was nothing left to him but the agony that pounded across his back. 

With every miniscule movement, every tremble of his thighs left cramped and contorted beneath him, each twitch of his wrists left awkwardly trapped within those tight cuffs discomfort jerked through his limbs, white lines of pain flared and tugged across his back. His distressed little whimpers ebbed through the silent hall as agony gripped him; ugly wounds yawned open across his spine, gore and bruising matted the churned skin of his ribs like some obscene battlefield carved into flesh, and through the mass of reds and purples, bone gleamed white through open, bloody furrows of tissue. 

Half-formed scabs cracked and oozed with his every shuddering breath; constricted muscles ached in their stricture until at last he could bear his own weight no longer. Beside him still the whip lay coiled where its lords abandoned it, and he did not dare to look upon it as with a gargantuan effort of will he rocked himself forward, he cradled his battered face and chest against the post to which he was bound, and for a while then everything slipped away. 

 _Stupid, stupid,_ the Moringotto’s words tolled through his head, they snared about his bones, _just a stupid little prince with no talents but for bedplay_. But that wasn’t true, _it wasn’t_ , his name was Maitimo, he told himself, Maitimo Nelyafinwë Fëanorion, and he wasn’t stupid, he was clever and brave and strong and he wasn’t a slave, he… he wasn’t, he couldn’t be, _he couldn’t be…_

The brand upon his chest pounded out its malice, dried blood crusted across his lips and his head ached as he rested it against the splintering wood. Angry shadows glowered down from the ceiling and how they hated him, they goaded his torture, they twisted healing to injury and helplessly he shivered as their evil enshrouded him. In anguish and delirium perhaps he drifted away, consciousness seemed far too much of an effort and into the mires of imagination he was cast; thoughts, pleas, nightmares, they all tangled together and burrowed through his skin, bravery slammed into cowardice and madness toppled to ruin, and as for the thousandth hurting time he stirred with their furore it was all too hard to stop from coming unravelled. 

For how his parted thighs trembled as he shifted; valleys of clotting flesh peeled open, they wept blood anew to drip down into the fluid mess that slicked the marble between his knees. Drenched in his humiliation they had left him, that awful wetness between his legs clung as moist, chafing irritation as the hours rolled by without remorse. The foul scents of urine and blood scraped through his nostrils and weakly he moaned as fatigue crushed through him, as once more he was forced to so delicately shift his weight upon his knees.      

The tortured groans of the earth echoed through Angband’s hall as the hours turned and the darkness thickened, and such was the terror of that unholy place that he quailed. The mountains heaved and foundries churned far below, and from them spilled puissance potent enough to scorch the rocks with its fury, and as the distant ghosts of their rage brushed over him he simply keened in his anguish, frantically he jerked against his bonds and despairing tears trickled down his cheeks. 

Káno might yet come for him; the treacherous thought crooned, Káno would come and make it all stop, make him stop hurting, but as the colossal vastness of the hall loomed up about him how tiny and forlorn were his muffled whimpers amid it. 

 _Why_ hadn’t Káno come? The evil thought rocked through him, _why_ ; the answer chimed through his head and piteously he sobbed as the truth of it broke through him.

Káno had sold him, they had said, had sold him like he was a dog, like he was worthless. Maybe Káno didn’t love him, maybe that was why he had done it, maybe he had never loved him and everything was a lie, every smile, every grin, it was all fake, it was all a trick, and maybe Turko had laughed, _stupid, stupid, stupid_ , and Moryo and Curvo thought he was weak, and Pityo didn’t care and Finno was gone, and -    

The grinding scrape of the doors of the hall being swept open sent a bleat of horror punching from his lips. Terror speared through his heart as those metal facades were thrown open, against the torchlight that fizzed from the corridor beyond a great host of shadows waited, and one among them stood greatest. And as Morgoth and his courtiers stalked through the hall desperately he writhed; panic lent strength to his contortions as violently he twisted his wrists within their bonds, yet although such tender flesh felt bruised down to the bone by his efforts, they did not avail him, and sickly he turned his face away. For how horribly the Moringotto’s evil clenched inside of his head, spines of pressure dug into his temples and sent acrid bile bubbling up his throat, and as a terrified animal faced with its abuser he could but cower as Angband’s lord drew nearer. 

Trailed by his lieutenant the Moringotto ascended the dais, clad in heavy robes of obsidian cloth and crowned with the Silmarils blazing upon his brow Morgoth stood before his throne, and malice thickened like cream through the air as the courtiers bowed low before their lord. Such was the power, the raw puissance of obeisance that clenched in the hall then that against the post Maedhros fell as if stricken, he could only tremble there and pray for deliverance as ponderously the Moringotto approached him.

 _“My, my, Maitimo,”_ the lord purred; greyed fingers knotted through the cropped, sweaty mess of Maedhros’ hair and wrenched his head backwards. Morgoth’s golden eyes roiled with delight as they skated the wounds upon his back, as they fell upon the sodden mingle of fluids that lingered still between his legs. _“What a mess you have made of my floor.”_

A terrible pause lingered upon the air, and the haughty sneer that curled over the lieutenant’s lips sent horror tipping through his innards.

_“I should make you lick it up.”_

Roughly then the Moringotto discarded him, and propelled by that momentum he crunched forwards into the post. And in those short, gasping moments he desperately tried to steel himself; he needed to be strong now, he needed to struggle, to resist, but as countless hours of abuse took their toll he could only muster the will to moan in protest as Morgoth’s dreadful gaze fell upon him once more. 

 _“Would you submit now, elfling?”_  

He cringed away as those words broke over him, he pressed his bruised face into the post as if somehow it would make it all go away, but as his silence grew too long the kick that slammed into his ribs sent the breath skidding from his lungs. Blood drooled to the marble below as scabs tore, as mutilated flesh wept, the hall tilted giddily before his eyes as the concussive force of that blow sent him staggering to his side, and though his legs twitched beneath him he no longer had the strength to right himself. 

Like some mangled puppet he dangled there from his wrists; there was nothing but the agony that screamed through flesh and bone alike, and the Moringotto’s voice in his ears. 

 _“Atrocious,”_ the lord sneered, over Maedhros’ crippled form he nodded to his lieutenant, and swiftly Mairon stepped forward.

Piteously he whimpered as the Maia unlocked the shackles about his wrists; pain cramped through his arms as at last they were released from their bondage, yet all of those hours of exhaustion and stress leached the strength from his muscles. Insistently Mairon tugged at his arm to draw him upwards but he could not do it, his legs simply would not hold him, and upon his aching knees then the Maia dragged him about. 

Every muscle in his body strained with the effort of not collapsing as Mairon hauled him before the base of the throne and remorselessly bade him kneel, between Morgoth’s spread thighs the Maia pushed him, and the utter ignobility of his station sent horror twisting through his stomach. Agony howled across his back as ruined flesh was so carelessly handled, and how sickening then were the Moringotto’s vile hands upon his face. 

 _“Not so bold now, elf lord,”_ the lord purred; firmly the Moringotto tilted his chin, the sacrosanct light of the Silmarils blazed before his eyes and faintly still he yearned for them. Yet far, far stronger came the dismay that stabbed through his heart as he gazed upon them, and he felt their radiance prickle across his skin. For caught amid their blinding annuli his flesh itched as though lice were crawling across him, _unclean_ , it seemed to shriek, unclean, unloved, and a mournful, choking little sob welled up in his throat as their judgement crashed down upon him.

Weakling, coward, this father’s jewels painted the truth of him; murderer, kinslayer, craven, a slave, a slave, a mewling little slave who in that moment dared not to fight back, and drenched there in his shame Maedhros squeezed his eyes shut. 

 _“Not so holy,”_ the Moringotto murmured, and below him Maedhros whimpered as the flesh of his face tingled as if he had been scalded. It was with but the slightest pressure of touch that Morgoth discarded him, sent him tipping backwards to the floor to splutter there in all of his ignominy. 

Pain slammed over his back but he could not feel it, the numbing tendrils of shock wrapped about him and throttled from him all feeling, all reason; the marble jarred against his cheek and shoulder but it felt as if he might fall straight through it. The anchors of reality came unmoored as utter desolation eroded them, and silent, senseless tears trickled down Maedhros' cheeks as Morgoth and his lieutenant looked blandly down upon him. 

 _“Get that wretch from my sight,”_ Morgoth commanded, or maybe Káno sneered it, or his father cursed him to suffer; memory and reality collided into one indistinguishable blur but desperately Maedhros twitched as he felt hands close upon him anew. Feebly he kicked out; no, he wanted to scream, no no no, _let me go_ ; pain blazed across his shoulders, an arm curled about the backs of his crumpled knees, and as he was hauled upwards all that escaped him was a delirious moan of pain.

Into the lieutenant's arms he found himself cradled; the Maia bore his weight with startling ease as coolly they descended the dais, and as Mairon bore him away from that place of suffering Maedhros’ head lolled to a miserable lean against the Maia’s chest. A thin, ragged moan caught high in his throat as the Maia’s arm jostled the raw wounds across his shoulders, but almost apologetic was the lieutenant’s voice then as they strode through the outer doors of the hall and into the fortress beyond.

“Hush,” Mairon murmured, “Hush, now.” And so golden he seemed then in the amber light of the flares, he sounded so much like Finno, gentle and wise and kind. But Mairon wasn’t kind, Maedhros thought desperately, the lieutenant had struck him, mocked him, hurt him, but with the same hands he had unfastened those shackles, he bore him away from that hall and all of its evil. 

Those thoughts swum together in one confusing tangle, and they would not so easily come apart. 

Through Angband’s corridors they strode; grim marble facades smudged in and out of focus before Maedhros’ bleary eyes, the jilt and chatter of orcish voices dulled to an indistinct susurrus in his ears as exhaustion claimed him, yet a commander’s bark some minutes later dragged him fitfully back to reality.

“My lord!” an armour-clad uruk called, and as Mairon turned to meet it dread flooded through Maedhros’ heart.

“My lord,” the uruk snarled; bright and curious were its eyes as they fell upon the lieutenant and his captive, but officiously then it snapped, “The fusillades have been assembled, as you ordered. The captains are being briefed before trials begin, perhaps you might wish to observe?” 

“I shall attend presently, Griznur, thank you,” Mairon said genially, and briskly the uruk nodded. 

Yet curiously the uruk’s gaze turned to Maedhros once more, and far more informally it asked, “Who’s this little worm, eh? Need you aid in his burden, my lord?” 

For a moment Mairon paused, and such unspeakable terror swarmed through Maedhros’ veins. No, he wanted to cry, no, he couldn’t go with the uruk, _he_ _couldn’t_ , they would take him away and only hurt him more, hurt him again, and instinctively he turned his face away. His hand closed into a gaunt, shaking fist about the Maia’s shirt, and though pain throbbed across his back desperately he pressed himself into Mairon’s chest. And he dared not look up, he dared not glimpse the smug little smile that wound about the Maia’s lips; he simply quivered with terror until at last the lieutenant replied, “Do not trouble yourself. I bear him upon our lord’s errand, and best I should see it done.” 

“As you command, my lord,” the uruk growled, before slapping its hand upon its bracer in a military salute and quickly striding away. And such relief flowed through Maedhros then that he nearly sobbed with the ache of it as the Maia turned aside and bore him onwards. 

It was not until many minutes later that dimly he became aware of the wetness that was soaking through the lieutenant's shirt. Blood, his blood, it was sticking through the fabric, it shone dark and gleaming in the torchlight and with that realisation a gross wave of dizziness swept through his head. The ceiling blurred into a fathomless swathe of shadows above him, and as the Maia turned sharply about a corner nausea roiled in Maedhros’ stomach.

All the tighter his innards knotted as the lieutenant stepped into a sturdy cage-trap elevator sunken into a crevice of the corridor; a ghastly squeal and judder of metal surrounded him as wires strained and wheels whirred, and he was so sickly thankful for the emptiness of his stomach as they lurched into ascent. Blank walls and slatted metal hemmed him close; senseless lights flickered before his eyes as he dared a glimpse out at his surrounds, but those shapeless blurs of crimson and orange sent his head spinning, and he simply shivered in the Maia’s arms as at last they slowed, and with a rattle of mechanics came to a halt.

He did not remember how they came to the healers’ chambers, corridors and archways hovered like uncertain mirages before his eyes; the only things that he knew to be true was the insistent pressure of the Maia’s arms clasped about him, and from the fluid pall of nightmares at last came the gentle prod of new fingers upon him.

“Tch,” a stern voice clicked suddenly, and blearily Maedhros stirred as a broad, orcish face hovered into view. The dour slate ceiling arched high above him, and though there were no windows somehow it gave the impression of airiness, and the looming threat of the fortress dissipated by a fraction in his heart. Yet fear did not relinquish him entirely as he glanced about and saw a wooden cot bolted into the corner of the room, and against the opposing wall a large table cluttered with medical apparatus was set. It teemed with needles, wires, vials of murky tonics and sharp-bladed instruments, and upon these his gaze lingered the longest. 

 _They would only hurt him more,_ instinct blared at him, it was all too hateful to look upon, and fretfully he moaned as the orc huffed once more, as it paced a wide circle about him cradled in the lieutenant's arms. Its shrewd, dark eyes skated the wounds ripped over his back, and as it ran a tentative finger across a raw wheal upon his ribs a feeble twitch of protest jerked through him.   

“Tch,” the orc clicked again, it withdrew for a moment and affixed both captive and lord with a cantankerous glare, and snidely it grumbled, “You cannot play with broken toys, Mairon. You of all people should know that.” 

At that the lieutenant bridled, some unpleasant emotion quirked across his face but was swiftly wiped clean as he sighed, “This was not of my doing.” 

“It is never of your doing, so it seems,” the orc said darkly, but before further word could pass between them the orc harrumphed to itself, and its stumpy fangs gnashed as it gestured to Maedhros’ stained, sodden trousers. 

“Get those off him,” it snapped, and though the lieutenant's eyes rolled at the heat of its tone, smoothly he complied. Gently he lowered his captive’s feet to the floor, yet still Maedhros whimpered as even with that simple motion mutilated flesh was punished anew. Slowly the Maia turned him, his legs shook pitifully as he struggled to hold his weight but always Mairon was there, the Maia held him securely as the orc stripped the fouled trousers from him. 

Wretchedly Maedhros shivered at his nakedness, he closed his eyes against the humiliation of it as the orc laved the blood from his thighs, with a warm, wetted cloth it rinsed the ghostly streaks of crimson and urine from his arse and legs, and before blood could stain them anew it bade Mairon lay him down upon the cot.

A quiet sob welled up in his throat as gently the Maia manoeuvred him chest-down atop the thin mattress, and a moment later he felt the bite of steel about his ankle, and the soft trill of shifting chains sounded in his ears. Miserably then he lay as he heard the orc begin to rummage about with the instruments laid upon the table; fear and exhaustion and such crippling loneliness engulfed him in that vulnerable moment as the lieutenant withdrew from him. 

He was going to leave, he was going to leave him all alone, _all alone_ , in that instant it was all too much to bear, and desperately Maedhros lunged forward; he clutched to Mairon’s hand and tears thickened his voice as he whimpered, “Please… please d-don’t go…” 

A traitorous smile played about the lieutenant’s lips as Maedhros’ fingers gripped about his own, but soft was his voice as he replied, “I must, elfling. I must depart, and you must stay here, do you understand?” 

“P-please…” Maedhros spluttered; the orc turned with something shining in its hand and panic bolted through his veins. “ _Please_ ,” he begged, he shivered and squirmed and anguish wrenched the words from his lips. “Please, please, I… I just w-want to go _home_ …” 

“I know,” the Maia murmured; the orc drew near and weakly Maedhros recoiled, and his fingers slipped from Mairon’s hand. “But such a thing is not within my power to grant, nor is it your right now to request.” 

“B-but…” Dark, hurting tears trickled down Maedhros’ bruised cheeks, desperately he gulped back the despair that clotted in his throat, and as the orc grasped his arm and slipped a clunky, fluid-filled syringe into the exposed vein at his inner elbow, how gentle was Mairon’s touch upon him. The Maia’s fingers felt like poison, they felt like nothingness; everything came all dizzy and draining as merciful anaesthetic rushed through his veins.

It soothed away hate, it numbed away pain until Maedhros felt that he might float upon it, and the lieutenant's voice was but a whisper in his ears as he said, “Sleep. Sleep, princeling, and surrender.”

But _no_ , Maedhros thought, through the fog of his mind still that thought pierced with clarity. No, I should not surrender, I should not, but as the intoxicating stupor of relief took hold golden hair and treacherous eyes fell away to the dark braids that he loved; to Finno’s gentle hands, to his strength, his warmth, to Finno, Finno, Finno, _I’m so sorry_. And how like Finno’s voice was Mairon lulling him down to sleep, all sick and sweet and awful, and as at last unconsciousness reared up to claim him the it was the Maia’s voice that lingered in his ears.     

 

* * *

 

For how long Maedhros slept he did not know; the blank, brooding stones of his chamber would not betray such secrets, and the candles burned with an ensorcelled light from where they clustered high upon the walls. Strangling dreams melded into senseless awakening, there was nothing but the tremble of exhausted, abused muscles and the pinch of torn flesh being sewn back together. Water trickled into his mouth and instinctively he swallowed, he spluttered and retched as something bitter was forced down behind it and he dared not open his eyes to see what it was. Somehow that knowledge may have proved worse than helpless ignorance. And it was all too much of a relief as fatigue snatched at him once more, as something cool was smeared over the flayed skin of his back, and the cot beneath him listed, and he crumbled through the world with its ecstasy, and into that abyss of sensation he came undone.

The ruddy glow of the candles seeped steadily through the cell as at last he struggled back into true wakefulness, a mournful little whimper bled from his throat as his eyes blinked open, and so swiftly he wished that they had not. For in that moment everything was so horribly disorientating: nausea roiled in his stomach as he lay heavily upon it, his cheek clung with sweat where it pressed into the back of his hand which had come crooked under his face, and suddenly a voice hummed above him, metal clinked and glass grated, and pressure shifted across his back.

A low moan of horror sounded in his throat as he realised that it was the orc who knelt beside him, that the orc was doing something to him, and though it seemed a titanic effort of will weakly he stirred, he flinched away from his captor but how piteous was the motion. His legs tangled through the unfamiliar woollen blanket draped about them; he scarcely shifted his torso an inch before the jerk of chains upon his ankle halted him, and miserably he stilled as the orc took notice of his wakening. 

“Easy,” it growled, but though its tone was gravelly it did not speak unkindly. “Easy, now, lie still.” 

Stumpy fangs split its thin lips asunder; its coiled, roped hair was dampened to its skull with a pungent ochre-like mud, and though its words helped to soothe him as pressure still twinged and softened across his back Maedhros stirred, and fitfully he jerked as a sudden blade of pain seemed to stab down through his spine. 

“No,” he whimpered, it was scarcely a word but a frightened, animal noise of anguish as pain skewered through him anew. “No, please… p-please…” 

“Quietly now,” the orc crooned; it did not cease in its furtive motions atop him but its voice was almost meditative as it spoke, and tightly Maedhros clutched to that slender lifeline of reprieve amid the tempest that threatened to drown him. “You must lie still now, hmm. Take one deep breath and let it out slowly, nar, through your mouth. There, there you go. One more, now. One more. _Shiokh_ , _shiokh_.” 

That strange, sharp word the orc repeated deep in its throat, yet soon enough Maedhros’ breaths began to steady, and soon he felt the worst of that fright dim from him. Discomfort still burned across his back but somehow now he did not fear it, and as it tugged something taut through his flesh the orc smiled down at him.

“ _Shiokh_ ,” it murmured. “Better now, yes,” and so benevolent was its tone that tentatively Maedhros nodded. 

“Come,” it said to him, “come what is your name, now?”   

“M-maitimo,” he croaked, and again the orc smiled at him, and though its dull, yellowed fangs were not pretty, somehow its merriment felt genuine.

“Maitimo,” the orc repeated, and though the syllables sounded odd upon its tongue tightly he held to that utterance not made in hatred or derision, he steeled himself about it as the orc reached aside. “It is a good name, hmm, very good. You may call me Styrrak, for it means ‘healer’ in our tongue, and many here call me so.”

Quickly Maedhros nodded, but his eyes flared wide with panic as it saw the syringe gleaming in the orc’s hand, and weakly he cried out as he glimpsed the dark, alien fluid captured within its glass barrel.

“No, no, d-don’t, please…” he moaned, yet Styrrak turned to him with resolute eyes, and gentle was its tone even as he struggled.

“Calm yourself, Maitimo,” it murmured, and patiently it waited until his frantic little protests ebbed away. “There, there, better now. I will give you an antiseptic, no more. Willow bark and yellow wort, and _dirzûm_ moss from the mines. It will help you to become strong again, to heal. It will take the pain away, but you must be good for me now. You must lie still. Do you believe me? Do you?”

Weariness dragged at his heart, and faintly he felt himself nod; he shivered as the long needle punctured through the skin of his back but no longer did he fight. And such bliss flowed through him then as slowly pain faded away, it sluiced from him like filth through a drain, and as oceans of mellifluous peace stretched out before him Maedhros just let himself drift. 

Pressure still tugged through his skin as Styrrak continued its stitching, it sealed gaping furrows of flesh in neat little sutures of catgut. Like a doll, Maedhros thought dully, like a broken toy it sewed him back together so that they could break him again, and as the hours turned and at last the orc finished its careful surgery, he stirred. 

He would be sent back to them, dread clawed through his innards, he would be sent back to the Moringotto and his followers so that they could play with him again, they could make him hurt, make him bleed for their vile amusement, and a tiny, shuddering sob bubbled up in his throat as the evil thought rocked through him. Yet Styrrak left him there to lie; the orc packed away its equipment, discarding bloodied rags and stray curls of catgut thread with clinical efficiency, and once it was finished it turned back to Maedhros and pressed a cup of water to his lips. 

“Easy,” it murmured; water flowed over his tongue and tears stung like grit behind his eyes, but gently the orc removed the cup, and serenely it looked to him. “Easy, now. It is over. The worst is done. _Thralkûn_ we say to children, and I say it to you now. Be at ease, rest now, recover.” 

Meekly then Maedhros lay upon the cot, he cradled his head into the crook of his arm laid beneath him, and unbidden a question slipped over his lips. 

“Why…” he croaked; he cleared his throat and tried again, and timidly he asked, “Why are you doing this?” 

“I am a healer, and I am the best in this fortress,” the orc said tonelessly, its hairy knuckles showed a pallid grey beneath its skin as it leaned back against the table. “Styrrak I am named, and in my lord’s service I mend what is broken.” 

“But,” Maedhros said, the words stumbled over his tongue, “but you’re not… you’re not like me. You’re not… you’re not a…” 

 _Slave._  

The word glistened upon his lips, but he dared not spit it forth. He dared not breathe life into it for the horror of its admittance. 

But still Styrrak seemed to grasp his meaning, for heavily it sighed, and said, “You are hurt, and for what you are, or by whose hand your hurts were inflicted I care not. We are made of flesh, us both. Slave, soldier, servant, lord; we are made of meat, and sinew and bone and blood. All are breakable, and in my centuries here I have threaded them all back together. It matters not to me what you are. I mend what is broken. It is simple.” 

And though the logic seemed somehow ruthless dimly Maedhros nodded, his eyes drifted shut to the quiet tinkle of metal upon glass as the orc gathered up its supplies and smoothly exited the chamber, and into the thoughtless oblivion that beckoned to him then gladly Maedhros sank. 

Hours, days; they passed in an abstract blur as the candles burned on unchanged, and there was scarce little to pass the frightful tedium of Maedhros’ waking hours save for the pain that twinged across his back, and Styrrak’s intermittent visits. Diligently the orc tended to him, and as the dullness of his cell grew relentless Maedhros’ heart would swell with relief as the door would be swung open, as Styrrak’s squat, robe-swaddled silhouette would stand illumined in the light, and for a time the orc would bring him some measure of company. 

With adroit precision it would sew up wounds ripped open afresh by nightly terrors, and when he was able to stand unaided it would shoo Maedhros from the bed as far as the shackle about his ankle would allow and it would strip down the bedding, and how he rejoiced in the cleanliness of the new, scratchy blanket and sheet which he curled himself upon. To garb him Styrrak swiftly knotted about his waist a rough-spun kilt, its thickly pleated skirt fell just short of his knees and he was so fawningly grateful as that fabric covered him; a small measure of confidence he drew back to himself and with far greater ease then he would rest in the orc’s presence.

Often too Styrrak would press a plate of porridge, or a bowl of stodgy, near gelatinous rice into his hands, and it would allow him to eat freely whilst it prepared its supplies. Sometimes, even, it would bring him an extra morsel of food, a small stack of sweetened biscuits, or a bruised apple discarded from the kitchens, and though the sycophantic edge to his happiness galled him, he could not deny the joy that swelled in his heart with each small mercy vested upon him.

Upon occasion the orc would talk to him, and though in the beginning he had feared the guttural accent of its voice, soon enough he came to tolerate it, to wish for it, even, for some small shred of distraction from the dread that still preyed upon his heart.

Attentively he would listen as Styrrak grumbled to him of the _knurlnith,_ the stonehearts, orcs who staggered through the healers’ chambers with stiffened limbs and jaundiced eyes. It was an imbalance, he learned, the timid question that came to his lips obliged him an answer; some lingering imperfection within orcish blood that hailed back to their birth in the Dark Days. In some families it lay dormant for centuries, yet once exacerbated by bodily strain it morphed healthy blood to splintering crystals of granite, little shards of rock that split veins within the tissue. 

Certain herbs could slow the ailment, Styrrak said, and desperately he swallowed down a wince of pain as the orc rinsed his healing back in a stinging solution of iodine. Of other things the orc sometimes spoke; inconsequential snatches of gossip from about the fortress, or of accidents in the mines deep below; of limbs mangled beyond all rescue by great cogs of industry, of flesh charred upon the bone as magma spewed and bodies boiled. 

Nervously he would listen to those accounts, and with the orc’s every passing visit worry gnawed that much more keenly in him. For loath though he was to admit it, Angband’s herbcraft proved no less potent than that of his own people; the wounds across his back closed with astonishing swiftness, and with each day he could feel greater strength creep back into body and spirit alike. But how those feelings terrified him, lonely and frightened he would lie upon his cot in those long hours of absence and despair as they raced through him. Because one day it would not be the gruff, gentle orc standing in the doorway to tend him, it would be someone else, someone far, far worse, they would take him away and what might come after that he could not bear to consider.

Yet though the dangerous thought more than once flitted through his mind he did not dare re-open the wounds that arched across his back. His hands were not manacled, he could do it, he could do it if he was brave, but the terror of what consequences might follow such dire insurrection smothered such thoughts in their cradle. 

No, he would simply endure; he would curl himself up upon his cot and make himself strong once more.        

Yet for all his stoicism what unfathomable horror stabbed through his innards as that fatal visit at last came. Both he and Styrrak looked up from where the orc bathed the reddened, fragile skin of his back to glimpse the hefty uruk framed within the doorway. Thickly muscled and fierce it looked, and as Maedhros’ eyes fell upon the leash that was coiled about its clawed hand, a piteous whimper tumbled out of his throat. 

“No,” he whined, “no, no, please…” 

Needles and gauze scattered to the floor as he scrambled backwards upon the cot, he wrenched at the shackle about his ankle as the uruk approached him, and the heavy tread of its booted feet sent panic bolting through his veins. Grotesque was the uruk’s leer; its lips were scarred with some repetitive, triangular pattern like fangs carved into grisly flesh, and looming over Maedhros then it indeed was monstrous to behold. And in that dreadful moment terror drowned out strength, like a trapped, trembling animal he only mewled out his horror as roughly the uruk snatched up his wrists and bound them tightly before his stomach with a length of cord, and swatted his head aside to clasp the leash to his collar. 

And with that insidious snick of metal he could not quite find the will to kick out as the uruk unfastened his ankle, a vicious tug upon the leash knocked the breath from his throat and dragged him to his feet, and helplessly he swayed as stiff muscles were so uncaringly stretched. Swiftly the uruk turned him, its foul eyes ran over the marred skin of his back but thickly then it snorted, but whether in approval or disdain or some other unthinkable emotion he did not know.

A sharp series of words in the orcish tongue the uruk rapped out to Styrrak, and blandly the orc replied from where it stood now by the table, the scattered needles held carefully in its palm. A short, tense pause followed Styrrak’s words, but with a menacing growl the uruk at last seemed contented; it glared to Maedhros upon the end of the leash and to him snapped, “Walk.” 

“Where are we going?” What nerve spurred those words over his lips he did not know, what vestige of boldness yet burned bright in his heart, but quickly he flinched back as the uruk rounded upon hm. He braced himself for what crunching blow was sure to come but though the uruk’s hand twitched with barely restrained longing, it seemed to wrestle back the urge to strike him. 

“Walk,” it snarled once more, and the ferocity of the jerk upon his collar brokered no further argument as it dragged him a few stumbling, coughing steps towards the door. And above the wheeze of his breath, as the uruk tugged him through the doorway he heard a soft voice behind him.   

“ _Rathmak_ , Maitimo,” Styrrak murmured. “Farewell. I should hope that we will not meet again.” 

The crushing malevolence of Angband’s power tipped as a tangible weight upon Maedhros’ shoulders as unwillingly he was pulled through those brooding corridors. Nervously his hands fidgeted with their bonds, silently he glanced out at his surrounds from beneath the messy crop of his hair splayed about his cheeks, and what he saw seemed to dampen the courage that smouldered in his heart.

For unabated was the aura of oppression in the air; though the corridors were wide their facades were accusing, watchful and wary, dripped in red and black marbles and filled with cavorting shadows, and creatures stepped out of nightmares. Goblins squalled and chattered in their clicking tongue as they scuttled to their posts, lone orcs hurried to and fro upon their errands and manifold was their monstrosity; some were loping and ape-like, and others almost insectile in nature, all chitinous teeth and spindly, stabbing limbs. 

Yet wide-eyed he stared as the uruk tugged him into a hallway, as lanterns wheeled overhead and light refracted in dazzling sprays of phosphorescence across the walls, and from the corner of the room a spirit looked at him. An impossible creature, so he thought it, a Maia clad in its elemental form, for though vaguely humanoid in shape the spirit’s skin was as a jagged lattice of glass, all slicing edges and translucent, silvery scales. It dropped tiny shards of splintered shell to tinkle upon the marble as it slunk then from the room; its gait was so profoundly disturbing, at once lolling and rigid, and he shrank into the uruk’s heels as that spirit passed him by.

Aberrations of the _hröa_ piled upon blatant usurpations, the Moringotto’s power seemed to corrupt all that it touched into mockeries of what once Palúrien had sung into being, and dismal then was Maedhros’ mood as the uruk led him onwards. Through a secluded corridor studded with barred doors and cobwebbed alcoves they walked, when suddenly a whimper came to his ears, a tiny choking noise that set his skin crawling. It was awful to hear when it came again, something in its pitch was so horribly sensual, and disgust spilled through his innards as he was led past an alcove, and concealed within its shade he glimpsed the unmistakeable shine of manacles clasped about pale wrists. 

A thin, scrawny slave was pressed there upon his knees, and as a clawed hand came down hard upon the back of the slave’s bobbing head, nausea turned in his stomach, and ashamedly he looked away. 

“Move,” the uruk snarled, and numbly Maedhros followed, and there was nothing but the bubbling chokes of that wretched slave in his ears as its master took its pleasure. 

Hard Maedhros’ stomach knotted as he walked on, for though forgotten in the turmoil of weeks past now memory crashed back down upon him; _crawl, little piggy,_ the orc had gloated, they had pulled his legs apart, fingers had traced over his ankle as he had lain there drugged and vulnerable and how helpless it had made him feel.

But though they might taunt and touch he would never let them go further, _never_ , abhorrence burned in his heart as he trailed the uruk down a tightly spiralling staircase. Pain was one evil, but to be touched unwillingly like that was another altogether and he would not let it happen; he was a king, he was Fëanáro’s son, he was not some whorish thing for them to delight in, and he would fight them, tooth and nail he would fight them if ever such a thing was pressed upon him.

For what felt like a small eternity he and the uruk wound down those endless stairs, horrors tumbled through Maedhros’ mind and desperately he tried to still them as the air about him grew dank. It hung close and sticky in the throat, chill humidity brushed over his skin and dully he watched as whorls of mould bloomed in sickly patterns across the damp stones of the stairwell. Down and down still they stepped until it seemed that the bowels of the earth might go no deeper, and even the uruk groaned in relief as at last they spilled out upon a landing, and after a moment’s pause traversed down a dark, cobbled passageway.

Tension clenched in Maedhros' innards as past row upon row of cells he was marched; blank iron doors etched with some unknown system of numeration hemmed him close, and their grey faces stole all semblance of warmth from the air. No sound there was to rive the deathly silence asunder, no sound but the thud of the uruk’s boots and the occasional snap of a flare burning in its bracket, and how that quiet seemed to leach its malevolence into his very skin. Yet determinedly he gritted his teeth, he steeled his will against the lurking intimidation of that place, but though he walked past the doors without outward sign of nervousness, such calm was but a brittle mask for the frightened beat of his heart within his chest. 

That fright erupted into a fizz of adrenaline as set amid those tomb-like rows one solitary door stood ajar; forcibly he was jostled through its aperture, and giddily he stumbled as that sense of terror within him magnified tenfold as he crossed its threshold. Crippling pain flared across his back, across his chest, and as desperately he struggled to right himself only then did he glimpse the two figures who stood within the cell already. 

A dingy light bled from overhead, yet its radiance did nothing to dispel the shadows that clotted about the Moringotto’s very being; stern and tall and crowned in the blistering light of the Silmarils he glowered at Maedhros, and golden sadism flickered in his eyes as he watched his captive suffer. Behind him a great bench was set into the wall, and by it Morgoth’s lieutenant stood, his back turned as he tinkered with some unseen object ensconced there amid the gloom. 

 _“Maitimo,”_ the Moringotto drawled; madness, pestilence, atrocities, they rolled in his tone, and at its master’s voice how the brand upon Maedhros’ chest _burned_ , it sent a gasp of pain retching over his lips as the uruk dragged him into the bared centre of the cell. _“At last you deign to join us. Your presence has been so sorely missed. I might only presume that your convalescence was pleasant? Upon my orders Styrrak spared no effort to aid your recovery.”_

“F-fuck you!” Maedhros spat, and from where came the fire that rushed suddenly through his veins he did not know. Betrayal stabbed through his innards and in its wake flowed only hatred, only hurt, fear, _impulsion_ , and as the uruk cut free the cord from his hands those potent emotions slammed him into action. 

Desperately he lashed out; a low, dirty punch he threw towards the uruk’s stomach, he twisted and scratched as it recoiled in surprise and in those brutal, pounding seconds frantically he pushed his advantage. He scrabbled away from the hand that clawed for him, he ripped the leash free of the uruk’s closing fingers and victory screeched through his veins as truly then he escaped its grasp, he twisted his way towards the door that yet stood ajar but in that moment how such noble sensibilities came undone.

For with a click of the Moringotto’s greyed fingers agony exploded across his chest, the brand upon him seared as if the iron was pressed glowing into his flesh, and at the howl that tore through the chamber then even Morgoth’s lieutenant grimaced. To his knees Maedhros dropped; it felt as though the breath had been punched clean from his lungs and helplessly he panted as those waves of pain crashed through him, burning, shaking, _devouring_ as they went and only quickening in their urgency. Desperately Maedhros scrabbled at himself, he pressed his hands to his chest as if somehow he could make it stop, as if somehow the pressure could stifle that blinding, howling agony, and helplessly he groaned as the Moringotto loomed over him, and softly spoke, _“Learn your place, thrall.”_  

Shrill, wordless little grunts of pain ripped out his throat as Morgoth left him there to convulse, and swiftly then the uruk stepped forward. Its thick fingers knotted through his hair as cruelly it dragged him backwards, his knees scraped over the stones as it hauled him more upright, and far, far beyond coherency he gasped and shrieked as it seized his arms away from his chest and drew his wrists behind him. 

Into a painful strappado of thin, cutting wire it fastened him; his arms were hauled agonisingly high up behind his back even as his knees ground into the rough stones below, and only a squeak of misery at the utmost end of anguish wormed from between his lips as finally the Moringotto released him from his spell. There was scarce little more that he could do save slump deliriously forwards, the collapse of his upper body dragged excruciatingly hard upon his wrists but he barely felt it, so great was the shock of that un-hurt that he simply gulped in air, and limp save for his wracking breaths he hung.

Wet, guttural groans edged over his lips as slowly that shock dissipated, or perhaps his captors merely grew bored of him, for as a minute turned quietly the uruk slipped from the cell, and disdainfully then Morgoth clicked at him. 

Grimly Maedhros looked to the lord who stood before him, he pushed himself back within his bonds to lessen the pressure exerted upon his arms and chest, upon the strained, sore muscles of his back. At the Moringotto’s feet he moaned like some simpering beast, yet quickly he tried to salvage even a solitary shred of composure as the lord reached for him, as the Moringotto raised his chin upon one burned finger and softly spoke, _“Your impudence tries my patience, elfling. Ever the Noldor prove themselves discourteous, and their king squalls like a child more base than a whoreson.”_

A snarl twisted his lips at the insult, but hard then Morgoth’s fingers gripped about his jaw, and the lord glowered, _“Temper your mood, lest evil befall you where wiser actions might curry better favour.”_  

Grievously Maedhros flinched as a sudden clatter of metal slipped from the table set at his left hand side; a scowl of displeasure flitted over the Moringotto’s features as roughly he relinquished Maedhros and left him there to kneel. And although his neck ached with the strain of it desperately Maedhros contorted himself about to his left; terror quivered in him at what horrific thing might have made that noise, and about the trembling curve of his chest faintly Maedhros glimpsed the lieutenant turn about with an incongruously bashful look caught upon his face. 

A monstrous set of pincers the Maia wielded within his hand; its jagged, toothed claws he clipped together with an all too gleeful smile, and lightly he said, “Apologies, my lord. Still a little slippery from the last.” 

A bloodied strip of cloth Mairon drew over the pincers before more carefully setting them aside, and time seemed to coalesce then into only a torturous parade of cruelties as Maedhros watched the lieutenant pore over the table’s contents. A hideous pair of pliers gnashed and glinted in the light as Mairon turned them in his hand, a vile contraption of a wooden frame built about a central metal screw the Maia twisted, and Maedhros gagged in horror as crimson flakes fluttered down to the floor by the Maia’s feet. Hot, panicky bile sizzled up his throat as Mairon wheeled a meat cleaver through his fingers, every muscle in him trembled with strain as three vicious clamps dangled from an interwoven series of chains in the Maia’s palm, and as the stress of holding his twisted position grew all too much then at last he had to turn away. His breath came short and tight through his lungs as the dread of what might be put to him sank in, as unknown items scraped and clinked beside him, and desperately he blinked back the frightened, stupid tears that prickled behind his eyes.

 _“So much pain,”_ the Moringotto murmured; metal screeched over metal and piteously Maedhros flinched, yet desperately he tried to rally himself as Morgoth continued, _“So much pain might be dealt within my realm, to those I deem deserving of it. Traitors, slanderers, usurpers of order… Pain is merely an enforcement of control.”_

Something cold trailed over Maedhros’ back, something thin and sharp and Maedhros whimpered as it snagged over sensitive, healing flesh.

_“Yet some who dwell upon mine earth hold strange philosophies, the Moriquendi in their filthy caverns preach that the phenomena of pain might be perceived as an evolution, an overcoming. A transcendence of will, for upon its endurance or in the throes of its aftermath one might find ecstasy, or clarity, or forgiveness, or whatever empty platitude one seeks as a balm for his vices. A quaint belief they hold, yet compelling in argument. So tell me then, Maitimo, what might you discern the purpose of pain to be?”_

A cry of discomfort rocked over Maedhros’ lips as the cold thing upon him nudged over too-sensitive flesh; it banished both words and focus from his mind in the shock of its touch, and it was all that he could do to swallow down the cry that welled up in his throat as Morgoth purred, _“A poor answer, elfling, yet perhaps such enlightenments elude us in moments of distress. Objectivity becomes dissolute, the visceral becomes the actual. Such momentous decisions might best be left to more opportune percolations of clarity, hmm?”_

Hesitantly Maedhros nodded; discomfort burned through his shoulders and arms left bound taut in their stricture, and the lord’s words were convoluted beyond all sense of meaning. Yet somehow he sensed that it was the answer that was looked for, and relief flowed through him as that cold, threatening thing was removed itself from his back. Footsteps shifted about him and metal clinked upon the table, and at last the Moringotto raised his chin once more. 

Before Maedhros’ face the lord extended his hand, and something was poised between his fingers. A thin, brittle-looking pod, or so Maedhros perceived it to be, chestnut brown in colour and intricately layered upon itself in wafer-like folds of organic matter, and Maedhros’ brow crinkled in puzzlement as Morgoth drew it before his eyes. 

 _“Do you know what this is, Maitimo?”_  

A long silence reigned then, sullenly Maedhros looked upon the folded, pod-like thing, and reticently he held his silence. Yet only a garbled cry of anguish tumbled over his lips as that silence stretched too far, swiftly the Moringotto slapped him about the cheek, and darkly said, _“Do you know what this is?”_  

“A… a pupa…” Maedhros spluttered; he did not know with certainty but fear shook his best guess from his lips. “A chrysalis…”

 _“Very good,”_ Morgoth purred, and from where he stood now at the side of his lord, a condescending smile rolled over Mairon’s lips. 

 _“Some believe the chrysalis to be a symbol of hope,”_ the Moringotto drawled, and silkily he looked to the pupa in his hand. _“The vermin of the woods worship the fluttering imagos that emerge from their slumbers as signs of divinity, as the transcendence of what is base and squalid in this world to a thing of beauty, for so the wriggling larva unveils its wings and is more sacred than it was before. Pain, suffering, hardship; oft I have heard it said amongst your snivelling kindred, amongst even my brethren themselves that these serve some higher purpose, that agony might be their chrysalis, a vessel of salvation that once come to its end might reveal its cargo in beauty and glory unparalleled to what it was before.”_

 _“They are mistaken,”_ Morgoth snarled, and how Maedhros quailed before the feyness that glittered in his eyes. _“For in species come to flourish under my realm there comes no imago, no delicate moth nor flitting butterfly to emerge from the filth of its womb. The chrysalis is no vessel of transformation, no holy deliverance does it bear. It is an execution chamber. Tissues dissolve, viscera decays, flesh melts in the fury of its own acid and it bears forth no fruit, no salvation save for the cold embrace of the grave.”_  

All too keenly Maedhros was aware of the puissance that crawled beneath the Moringotto’s words, each horrible word hung in the air with supernatural clarity, and about his airway something seemed to constrict. Tighter and tighter his collar wrenched about his throat, black malice bound it fast and Maedhros writhed as it dug into his flesh, as truly it became strangling. Desperately he shook in his bonds as it inched yet tighter, and it was only as his struggles quietened and his vision sparkled that the Moringotto’s spell ceased, and miserably then Maedhros knelt at his feet.

Shallow, hurting little breaths he gulped into his lungs, and he could scarcely even squeak in protest as with pitiful ease Morgoth forced his mouth open, he forced that hideous chrysalis to sit upon his tongue and such was the tightness of the collar now fixed about him that he could no longer swallow.

 _“There is no honour in your suffering, elfling, nor dignity in your disgrace. You kneel before me like a craven beast, and pretences of righteousness will not save you.”_

And how Maedhros choked as the chrysalis scraped over the sensitive tissues at the back of his throat, he retched and spluttered but even as he tried to spit it out then swiftly the lieutenant stepped forward, and a thick, leather gag Mairon fastened about his face.

_“Your metamorphosis is death.”_

The wide strap of the gag parted his teeth, it trapped that awful thing upon his tongue and Maedhros could but writhe and squeak in muffled, breathless protests, but as the moments passed and they did not aid him, at last he stilled.

 _“Think upon mine words, elfling,”_ the Moringotto said. _“And think wisely, afore we speak again on the morrow.”_

Imperiously then Morgoth swept from the room; tiny barbs pricked into Maedhros’ tongue and weakly he cried out as only Mairon stood before him. Desperately he tossed in his bonds, though it felt like a pollution of his very _fëa_ beseechingly he blinked up at the Maia, and thinly he moaned in his agony, he could only hope against all hope that perhaps Mairon might pity him, might release him, might spare him from this torment. 

Yet a cruel smile played about the Maia’s lips as he sank before Maedhros’ face, and even as Maedhros fretted and whimpered softly Mairon whispered, “Hush, hush now, Maitimo. It will all be all right. But you must obey now, do you understand? You must obey.” 

How horrible then, how sick and wrong and gutting and awful was the fleeting kiss that the Maia placed upon the leather gag between Maedhros’ teeth. For sweetly Mairon’s lips brushed against his own, and how he hated it; it set emotions lurching in his stomach that he did not dare give name to, and he could only whimper as the Maia turned from him then. 

The chrysalis needled into his tongue as the door before him slammed shut, as the Maia left him bound there in all his discomfort, and Maedhros could but endure as the lonely, aching, humiliating hours sank in.

 

 

* * *

 

_A huge apology for the slowness of this update - real life getting in the way and whatnot. But I hope that the wait was worth it in the end, and poor Maedhros' ordeal is far from over yet. As usual, questions, comments, or concerns are very welcome, either here or on Tumblr. Thanks to you, wonderful reader, who has stuck with me this far, and hopefully we'll continue on soon! Yours, theeventualwinner._

_Oh, and shoutout to any Singaporeans in the readership! Happy SG50 (as it was at time of initial writing!) and I hope you liked the glaringly obvious tribute! ;)_


	5. The Killing Fields

The hours were unrelenting in their misery; every shallow breath drawn into Maedhros’ lungs was hateful, was an effort almost beyond endurance. Shadows moiled before his weary eyes; they clotted about the corners of the cell, they swarmed beneath the legs of the table set against the wall upon his left like malevolent little ghosts sent to mock him in his torment until at last he could withstand them no longer, and under the weight of their hatred he crumbled away.

The wire about his wrists had long since become strangling, it throttled the life from his fingers and left red, cutting marks bitten into his skin, and fatigue cramped through his arms left trembling and sore hauled so high up behind his back. His shoulders ached as the strain of the strappado took its toll; every miniscule movement of his torso sent waves of discomfort spasming through his limbs until it felt as though tendons might shear, ligaments might snap, his arms might rip clean from their sockets, and maybe he might be glad of such mercies.

His knees ground into the hard slate below him, his jaw throbbed out its torment from the cruel gag left pried between his teeth, and with his every shuddering breath or uncontrollable twitch, the horrible thing laid upon his tongue needled into him.

_There is no honour in your suffering, elfling,_ the Moringotto had said, and evil were his words. The pupa scratching into the sensitive tissues of Maedhros’ mouth was so awfully humiliating; its hooked little barbs tore bloodied furrows into his tongue, into his cheeks, and desperately he would swallow back the whimpers of degradation that flickered out of his throat with each new injury it inflicted upon him. _There is no dignity in your disgrace._

Even his raiment offered him no chance of respite; the kilt draped about his waist provided scant protection from physical duress and the collar about his neck was strangling in its tightness, and no matter how much he might writhe within his strictures they seemed only to bind the tighter.

In those first painful hours he had wriggled, restlessly he had shifted and fought as stress sank into his limbs. He had worked his wrists within their bonds, he jerked and tugged and struggled against the wire that bound him until it felt as though he had lacerated flesh down to the bone, and frustrated tears had dripped down his cheeks as such efforts brought him no succour.

From knee to knee he shifted his weight as best as he could, and though his shoulders burned with the strain of even that tiny movement, for a small time he might kneel with some relative measure of comfort, of un-pain. But soon enough the stress of such an unnatural position began to throb all too keenly, his thighs cramped and trembled and he would be forced to contort himself anew. 

Yet through the hurt of those motions at least it was once small freedom that he was allowed, it was one thing that his captors could not fully control, and from it a thought drifted to his mind. It was tiny, wild, _desperate_ , but it was something, some small rebellion that perhaps he could muster and there within some concealed part of his mind he nurtured it, he clutched to it and bade it grow, and it was but one small anchor to weather the passing of the flood.

As the hours lengthened perhaps he had drifted; thought and time yawned into a meaningless morass of pain and suffering and into it he tipped. His arms throbbed in their agony as his abdominal muscles at last failed him, his entire upper body near dangled from the wire that sliced into his wrists, but thought that strain seethed through skin and muscle alike, he scarcely felt it. For amid all of that hurt somehow there was numbness; out of the darkness there emerged light and it scoured the shadows from its presence, or so it seemed, out of evil there came grace that no unclean thing might blemish. 

Softly his mother whispered to him, her ghostly fingers stroked back the sweaty strands of his hair as if he were a frightened child once more cradled in her lap, and in her touch there was calmness, there was peace. A muffled whine of adoration bled from his throat as evanescent fingers trailed over his cheeks, as they soothed the awful pressure of the gag pulled taut across his skin.

_“You must be brave, Maitimo,”_ she murmured. _“You must be strong,”_ and how he whimpered as her words washed through him.

I am, he thought, he would have screamed it but for the pain of the thing that skewered into his tongue, I am, I am, _I’m trying_ , and suddenly his father was there, stern and noble and brave and how full of pride, raven-haired and unquenchable in might, but from him Maedhros turned his face. For shame burned in his heart as he looked upon his sire, there was love in Fëanáro’s gaze but there was terror also, there were flames. _Kinslayer, murderer_ ; those names upon the Moringotto’s lips lunged at him and all too sharp were their teeth.

And suddenly Káno was there too, everything shimmered and shifted and Káno was laughing, Turko and Curvo whispered and grinned and there was blood upon their lips and slaver’s chains in their hands, and Telvo burned; black and orange and red he burned until there was nothing left but ashes, ashes and the dying sounds of his screams. Piteously Maedhros shook as such odious thoughts rolled through him: Káno had lied to him, he had looked him in the eye and still he had betrayed him, he had left him here to suffer, and black resentment kindled in Maedhros’ heart.

At least Styrrak had not lied to him. The treacherous thought bolted through his mind before he could stop it. The orc had been kind to him, had fed him, had healed him, but it had not lied to him.

It had not pretended to love him. It had not pretended to care.

That awful thought wove about Maedhros’ heart; it skewered into him with its thorns and would not easily shake loose, and in the dark realms between waking despair and an aching, fitful sleep he loured, though for how long the hours stretched on in that timeless place he did not know. 

It was only the clatter of footsteps outside the door that dragged him from his bleary suffering. The heavy clunk of the bolt sliding free set fear lancing through his innards, muscles worn stiff with hours of misuse trembled and quailed, but desperately Maedhros clamped down upon the terror that sought to destroy him. He would not cower, he told himself savagely; with what small strength he had yet conserved he hauled himself more upright in his bonds, and though his knees ached and throbbed as they pressed into the slate below him grimly he endured it. 

For once more into his mind flourished that wild idea from before; he had to be ready, he had to be quick, the thoughts pounded through his head like some wild drumbeat and from them he drew courage. He would not blanch before his captors: they did not own him, they were not his masters, _he was not their slave,_ and tightly he gripped to the anger that flushed through his veins with that hideous thought. Like a glowing ember he cradled it into his belly as the door swung open before him, he let its heat and its boldness suffuse him, ready him.

Yet for all its ferocity it could not truly stifle his dismay as through the door’s dark aperture a hefty, leering uruk strode and made immediately for the table beside him, and behind it followed something far more evil. 

Haughty and cold was the lieutenant’s bearing, a fey half-smile played about his handsome lips as his gaze fell upon his captive’s contorted, bound form, and hard Maedhros fought not to flinch backwards as the Maia crossed the threshold before him. The brand upon his chest throbbed, it was but a dim echo of the agony of its birth, but from that discomfort then Maedhros drew together his strength. 

He gripped to the anger that burned in his heart and he let it envelop him, it strengthened failing muscles, it steeled a fraying will, and as best as he could behind the cutting gag he clenched his jaw. For as the lieutenant sauntered towards him, upon his left leg he sharply dropped his weight, and though his shoulders and arms screeched out their protest at such abuse with every ounce of strength left to him he wrenched himself about in his bonds. 

To his left he feinted; a savage, sweeping arc he kicked out before him with his right leg and though such actions would no doubt prove futile so fervently he hoped that he might catch the Maia unawares. He might surprise him, unsettle him, hurt him, just for one stunning, ecstatic moment he might not feel like victim, but what crushing dismay poured through his heart then as with excruciating ease Mairon stepped aside the swing of his leg.

It seemed naught but the elegant glide of a waltz, a brief back-step and then a pause, and horror speared through Maedhros’ heart as the lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. The air for a moment hung static, an eternity made fluid with the bitter grease of failure, but how cruelly then everything slammed back into motion.  

For even as Maedhros scrabbled to recover himself the Maia’s face darkened, something violent glimmered in his gaze and all too brutal was the kick that cracked into Maedhros’ ribcage. It sent him reeling sideways in his bonds; his wrists howled out their agony as wire cut anew into sore, broken flesh, and desperately Maedhros grunted behind the gag as pain exploded through his chest. The strain upon his shoulders was the only thing preventing his utter collapse; the breath came snorting out of his nose in one stinging cough and for a moment the room shook, it shivered and splintered and unravelled in its horror, and it was only the Maia’s fingers knotting through his hair that dragged him back to reality. 

“Feral little wretch,” Mairon spat; a mewling, muffled squeal ebbed out of Maedhros’ throat as the lieutenant’s fingers clenched into his scalp and as if he weighed no more than a ragdoll hauled him upwards. His knees grazed across the slate below, almost bodily he dangled from the Maia’s fingers, but as he shook and squalled in his terror how swiftly then Mairon’s mood softened. 

Annoyance transmuted into something far more perilous, and glancing slyly to the uruk who loomed at the table’s edge, gluttonously the lieutenant purred, “Perhaps we should have you gelded…”

“Makes them much more gentle, m’lord,” the uruk nodded; its swarthy lips split into a horrific, drooling leer as its gaze fell upon Maedhros’ scarred back. “So soft and pretty between their legs, hmm…”

The Maia’s grin was _vile_ ; such a thing was a violation beyond conceiving, but what unutterable panic flooded through Maedhros’ veins as from his belt Mairon withdrew a sharp, sickle-bladed knife, and turned it slowly before Maedhros’ face. Grievously he trembled in the Maia’s grip, his eyes flared wide with horror as the blade glimmered even in the wan light of the cell, and as the seconds wore on in growing terror a panting, half-hysterical noise of refusal wormed out of his throat. 

“Oh,” the Maia purred, “not so fond of that?” The point of the knife flicked into the exposed skin of his cheekbone, the lieutenant’s fingers pulled tighter into his hair and there was nothing that Maedhros could do but shiver as grotesquely Mairon smiled, as he whispered, “Gorza here is very quick with a blade.”    

A dreadful moment passed before the Maia relinquished him; it felt as though all the warmth had been drained from the earth as the uruk had grunted, as the lieutenant’s smile had only grown sharper, and it was only as Mairon dropped him back to his knees and flicked the knife clear of his skin that Maedhros dared to gulp a new breath into his lungs. 

“Nay, Maitimo,” the lieutenant said derisively, tucking the knife into a small sheath at his belt. “My master bids me stand before you in his place, and you and I must have words without undue distraction.” 

The slight note of wistfulness in the Maia’s voice set Maedhros’ skin crawling, and he flinched violently back as Mairon suddenly reached for his face. About the straps of the gag the Maia’s fingers slid, and swiftly Maedhros discerned his purpose. He near thrust his head into the Maia’s hands in his fervour to have that loathsome thing removed, yet perhaps the desperation of his motion took even Mairon aback. For sharply the lieutenant raised Maedhros’ chin, and down into his face coldly said, “Bite me, and it will be the last time that you have teeth.”  

It took every ounce of Maedhros’ self-control not to moan in relief as that awful gag was peeled away from his face; the pupa slid from his aching jaw in a slick of reddened saliva and he gasped in a sweet, stinging breath as he felt the ensorcelled collar about his neck loosen. The rush of air into his lungs was giddying, for a moment he simply revelled in the shock of it and helplessly, _gratefully_ he hung in his bonds as the Maia discarded the gag into the uruk’s outstretched hand, and swept the moistened, mangled pupa to the corner of the room with the sole of his boot.

Swiftly though the lieutenant rounded upon him once more; Mairon’s fingers dug into the tender flesh of his jaw and raised his chin, and despite himself Maedhros groaned as with that fresh hurt as muscles worn stiff with relentless stricture were forcibly stretched. That shameful noise seemed to linger about the very stones of the cell, a smug little smile curved the lieutenant’s lips, and how Maedhros detested it as he tutted, “To think that once you were a king…”

“I am s-still a king…” Maedhros croaked; numb muscles and the pressure of the Maia’s fingers upon his jaw distorted his words but still he wrestled them forth. Hatefully he looked to the Maia standing above him, but there found only disdain. 

“Do you think so, slave?” Like greased metal the words poured from the lieutenant’s lips, both fluid and slicing. “For the word grows cold about the fire: your brother sits now upon your throne. Your pretty crown lies upon his brow and how well it suits him; all those diamonds set in gleaming gold, those rubies dripping through his hair. Clever, cunning Macalaurë, how proud he must be. For what a magnificent trade he has wagered, and won: a kingdom gained, a crown bought for the price of a snivelling beast like you…” 

“No…” Maedhros moaned; the Maia’s words were infectious, they were sick, they were _wrong_. Over and over again he had told himself that, they were wrong, they were wrong, _they were wrong_ , yet how lulling they were, and how treacherous was the snare of truth bound through them.

But swiftly Maedhros tried to rally himself, and boldly he began, “No! No, he… he didn’t do that… he _didn’t_ …”

The words sounded pathetic even to his own ears, and the venom in the Maia’s voice cut down to the bone.

“Poor Maitimo, do you think it unfair? Then perhaps such ignoble deeds might be undone, or their evils lessened. Think carefully now, and weigh your words with wisdom, not pride, for perhaps by your lips the tapestries of fate might be unsewn, or stitched again anew.”

“Fuck you,” Maedhros spat; he saw what the Maia suggested and how it galled him, fury ignited in his veins and it was worth the open-handed blow to his cheek that sent his head spinning. 

A gurgling whine spluttered out of his throat, but through the pain and ignominy of it all still he grimaced. He was no traitor, he was no craven that might be controlled, or worse, _bought_ , by threat of harm, and though some tiny part of him still longed to collapse into despair, anger hummed in his veins and it bound him fast to his stubbornness.  

“Crass words only paint you in the filth of what you are,” the lieutenant sneered; tall and proud he stood over Maedhros’ shivering form. “A stupid, simpering little slave scarcely fit to grace the stones you kneel on.”

A terrible pause rocked through the room then; the uruk huffed and shuffled at his side and something metallic clinked upon the table, but though fear bubbled in Maedhros’ stomach he would not let it show. Sullenly he stared at the dour slate before him, and he let the Maia’s words wash over him. 

“But even such base things as you might yield some sweet succour before their time is done, think you not? Speak plainly now and you may yet buy yourself some measure of comfort here, for let it not be said that Angband’s halls are ungenerous in their boons.” 

To that Maedhros was silent, and smoothly Mairon continued, “Tell me, how many of your kindred squat amid the desolate hills? Upon the shores of Mithrim’s lake you stake your royal banners, yet how many more skulk beneath my lord’s skies? What brought them forth from the blesséd lands of the West: was it greed alone, I wonder?" 

At that Maedhros bridled; a quirk passed over his lips but still silent he remained, and softly the Maia purred, “A doomed quest for redemption, is that what you sought? You think that noble deeds here might wash your blades clean, blades slaked in the entrails of your own screaming kin?”

A supercilious smile curled the lieutenant’s lips, and rich was his voice as he sneered, “Your name precedes you, _Fëanorion_ , and it drenches you in its guilt.” 

At that final barb Maedhros stirred; the Maia’s words cut far too close to the mark, but worse were Mairon’s fingers upon him then, for once more the lieutenant tilted his head upwards to look him in the eye.   

“Your march was made in vain,” he sneered, “for petty vengeance stirred to gross ire at the whim of a madman. Tell me now, for truly it may delight me: what lies poured from your father’s lips as he led your people to the killing fields?” 

But though the Maia’s nails stabbed into his cheeks Maedhros locked his jaw beneath them; hatred swelled in his heart and defiantly he stared up at his captor, and not a word slipped over his lips. 

“Talk, slave,” Mairon said, and suddenly vanished was the air of decadence in his voice; there was scarce little left in it but cold disdain. “Talk, lest I deem you truly worthless. You should abhor that fate the most.” 

The threat stung in Maedhros’ ears, yet he would not heed it; boldness surged once more in his heart and it cast aside weariness, it fortified what was weak and though the Maia’s nails left livid scratches across already sore skin Maedhros tore himself from his grip. 

“I will not treat with you, demon!” he spat. “Tell your vile master to come himself, for I will not bandy words with an accursed sprite like you!” 

The Maia’s eyes were horrific; the very air about him seemed to grow taut and thin, pressure screeched through Maedhros’ skull only to be abruptly severed, and in its void there was nothing but the dim pounding of shock. Yet even as Maedhros struggled to compose himself swiftly the Maia nodded; the uruk long stood silent amid proceedings lurched forward, and pain tore across Maedhros’ shoulder. 

Across the twisted curve of his deltoid held rigid by the strappado it drew a wicked knife; blood welled crimson as freckled skin parted, and mercilessly Mairon watched as his captive cried out. A groan of discomfort hummed deep in Maedhros’ chest, yet how swiftly did it taper to a thin screech of anguish as pain scored across his arm. Again the uruk sliced through flesh yet with that renewed hurt blood frothed upon his skin; with some searing vesicant the uruk had coated its blade, and Maedhros yelped as the chemical burned through his flesh.

Again and again the uruk cut him; a crazed lattice of weeping, sizzling flesh it left carved into his shoulder, and though Maedhros shook and bucked and screamed as blisters rose and burst and were sliced open afresh, as skin parted to expose the raw muscle beneath it, pitilessly his captors watched him suffer. 

Perhaps Mairon at last tired of watching him shudder; limply he hung in his bonds and nothing but distressed little whimpers of pain ebbed from his lips, or perhaps the uruk simply ran out of suitable flesh to flay, but finally the lieutenant bade it cease its efforts, and Maedhros could but mewl out his relief as the uruk’s looming bulk withdrew from him. 

“Understand,” Mairon said coldly, or warmly, or without inflection at all; his voice came all wrong and distorted through Maedhros’ head and it was so much easier just to drift, just to fade away…

A stinging slap to his cheek wrested him back to a clarity that brought no mercy; the lieutenant glared down at him and the uruk rummaged upon the table for some unseen item of torment, and miserably Maedhros whined as once more the Maia spoke.

“I have precious little time for your recalcitrance, and my master’s patience is a thing not lightly tested. You will answer my questions as I put them to you, you will obey your new masters in whatever deed they should command of you, and you will do so without hesitation.”

A spluttering scoff of laughter forced itself from Maedhros’ throat, yet smoothly the Maia continued, “Conceal from me these matters, and I will pry your confessions bleeding from your lips. In time,” Mairon purred; softly he stroked over the scratches that mottled Maedhros’ jaw, his eyes lingered with far too much glee over the wounds lacerated into Maedhros’ shoulder, “in pain, the truth will out.” 

“No,” Maedhros whispered, by what whim of madness the worlds crawled over his lips he did not know, he knew only that they came. “No…” 

“Oh,” the Maia pouted, an obscene smile curled about the edges of his lips at that feeble little rebellion, saccharine and gutting. “But you are not daunted by pain, are you? Fëanáro’s brave little boy, you have dealt enough pain to learn how to endure it. Yet there are other things, Maitimo, other things that might be done…” 

The Maia’s voice was sick, puissance crawled in his words and Maedhros’ head reeled as if he were drunk, but how soft then was Mairon there brushing his dishevelled hair back from his face, how suddenly tender were his fingers as he stroked over Maedhros’ flushed, hurting cheeks. “You should not like them, I suppose, but perhaps in the end you might come to enjoy our little favours…”

“No!” Maedhros cried, as best as he was able he twitched within his bonds, but truly then did exhaustion begin to bite. The wire about his wrists throttled the life from his arms, stinging blood dripped to the floor with his every shudder, and every heartbeat seemed a lifetime tied to a torturous existence yet still he was made to endure. 

But he had to endure it, he told himself, he had to; for his people, for his brothers, for his mother, he had promised her, he had promised her that he would be brave, and so he must. 

Yet how that veneer of bravery began slowly to shatter as Mairon turned to the uruk that lurked by the table; a few words passed between them in a guttural tongue and darkly then the uruk grinned. Yet it had scarcely begun to reach for its next torturous implement when suddenly a knock came at the door, and as one both uruk and lieutenant whirled, and Maedhros jumped within his bonds.

“My lord Mairon,” a muffled voice called, and so grateful was Maedhros for its interjection that he dared not even look the newcomer in the eye, he scarcely drew new breath as the lieutenant scowled, before stepping aside and drawing open the door.

Booted feet scuffed and the creak of leather sounded; a thin, wiry orc bowed low before its lord, before quickly speaking: “Apologies for the intrusion, my lord, but it is not without urgency. Magdur begs your assistance with the kilns in the Eastern Quarter, my lord. After last month’s mishap one will no longer fire, and the other shows dangerous signs of wear after yesterday’s incident. She bids you come as swiftly as you might be able, for without your aid production will be all but halted and our provisions lost, for we have not the room to store the additional tonnage.”

For a brief moment Mairon paused; indecision wavered in his eyes as he glanced to Maedhros’ bowed form, but with a sharp sigh then he nodded. 

“Very well,” he said to the orc, “I will see it done. Go, tell your mistress I will be with her fifteen minutes hence.” 

With that the orc bowed once more before scuttling off down the corridor, yet fleeting was the joy that flashed through Maedhros’ heart at the lieutenant’s imminent departure. For back to the uruk Mairon turned, and heavily said, “Do not pity the thrall, Gorza. He does not deserve it.” 

“I know not pity,” the uruk intoned; it swung about and Maedhros quailed see the thick, serrated pincers wielded between its clawed fingers. Blank despair ripped through his heart; a muffled, choking sob welled up in his throat and was left prickling there as above his head the uruk growled, “You want ‘im whole, m’lord?” 

The silence that fell was horrific; the Maia’s eyes gleamed with an all too devious light, and horror turned in Maedhros’ stomach at the Maia’s parting words. They lingered in his ears far beyond the closing slam of the door, and through all the screams and pain that later came those two little words haunted him. 

_“For now.”_

 

* * *

 

The crunch of his shoulder and back slung against a filthy stone floor jerked Maedhros back to a nightmarish consciousness. Pain flared over his ribs and instinctively he moaned; spasms of unending agony seemed to cramp through his back, his arms, and his thighs, and he could but cringe as they sought to tear him apart.

He scarcely dared to open his eyes as iron-shod boots trod about his crumpled form, there was nothing but the blurry silhouette of his torturer dancing before him and the horrid clink of unfurling metal in his ears. A few shallow breaths passed, meaty fingers fumbled at his throat and dismay poured through him as to his collar the uruk fastened a sturdy length of chain that was coiled through a large metal ring welded to the wall, and then it left him alone. 

A bowl of porridge and a large cup of water were clattered to the floor nearby, but at the sound Maedhros could not help but flinch away. Though soon enough the uruk huffed its approval, it checked the fastenings upon the chain at the ring and then retreated, and nothing but blank hurt pounded through Maedhros’ body as it bolted the door fast behind it. 

For how long he lay there motionless he did not know; even the shallow, unsteady rhythm of his breathing seemed a trial beyond endurance, just another mockery sent to torment him. The uruk had done something to his ribs, he remembered dimly, and though now it had left his limbs unbound he did not dare move to hold himself, to touch where the pain throbbed worst across the left side of his torso. 

A dreadful pair of pincers the uruk had wielded; ragged gobbets of flesh it had bitten from his ribs until there was nothing left but ruptured, ruined skin. Pitilessly it had continued as he had screamed, he had twitched and thrashed and howled until he tore his wrists bloody in their bonds; his knees were grazed and torn as he had scrabbled against the floor for some measure of reprieve, of distraction. Yet through the agony that had wracked him somehow he had held to his purpose, and of that he supposed that he was proud. For through all his gasps and shrieks and hurting, guttural groans as the uruk had pried flesh from weeping flesh, he had not spoken a word of what Angband’s lords lusted to know. 

Perhaps the uruk had tired of his screams, perhaps he had lost consciousness as stress and exhaustion had finally claimed him; what had happened he truly could not say, for the next thing he recalled was the slam of his abused body to the floor in this new place of evil. It jolted straying thoughts back to some sort of linearity, and with the crawling minutes at last Maedhros drifted back to himself. 

Congealed blood shone across the open sores about his wrists and tenderly he cradled them into his chest; a soft thrill of wonder lapped at his heart at the simple joy of not being fettered by limb, and when at last agony smoothed away to just dull, throbbing pain his eyes blinked blearily open once more. Something prickled upon his skin, the musty scent of staling straw caught in his throat, and as he felt even the tiniest shred of strength ebb back into his limbs, with a colossal effort of will he levered himself upwards. Even that simple motion proved a trial; his arms trembled with the effort of holding his weight, pain clawed through his ribs as half-scabbing skin was torn open anew, and made clumsy with haste he collapsed back into a shallow sitting position against the wall.

The stones were cool against the still-fragile skin of his back, and against them for a time he rested, he drew his grazed knees up to his chest and simply held himself there, before daring to look out upon the cell that trapped him.

Dour grey slate glared down its oppression from all sides, a glowing rune etched high into the faceless stones bled a dreary light through the motionless air, and save for the tiny culvert carved into the opposing wall, and the solid wood of the door set imposingly to his right, there was scarce little to break its monotony. Upon a thin mat of straw the uruk had left him, and he was so sickly grateful for the false flush of heat that it left scratched upon his skin, for though the air was not cold, it was not warm either.   

Yet even as he shifted his hips but a fraction, as he splayed the bloodied rags of his kilt further over his legs there came the clink of chains, and their metallic chatter was as a death-knell in his heart. The collar about his neck was an abhorrence, how humiliating was the chain that tethered him to a metal ring in the wall; it was as if he were no better than a dog left leashed to await the cruel whims of its master, and as he gazed upon the slack length of chain that fell away from his throat despair yawned open in his stomach.

His brothers were gone: they had left him, abandoned him, sold him; his fingernails carved reddened crescents into the raw skin of his knees as he gripped into himself. Because maybe the Maia was right, the insidious thought chimed, maybe he was worthless, maybe he deserved this, maybe it was his punishment for all of his failures.

Pain cracked through his ribs as a harsh, gulping breath scraped into his lungs, and desperately he bit back the tears that prickled behind his eyes. For such thoughts were _lies_ , he told himself savagely, some bold part of his _fëa_ rose and bade him stand firm: they were lies, _they had to be lies_. Quickly he reached for the cup of water left lying beside him, and with shaking fingers he raised it to his lips, and thought the chilled water was tasted greasy upon his tongue somehow it helped to steady him.

To the porridge he then turned his attention. He must be hungry, surely, he thought vaguely, and though the meal was bland at least it filled him, it helped to soothe the emptiness that gaped open in his stomach and sought to devour him. Wearily he wiped the last of the stodgy oats from his fingers, yet as the minutes curdled then so too did his mood, and dismal were his thoughts. Cold and lonely and hurting they had left him; a slave, a slave, the word chewed at him until he felt that he might break beneath it, exhaustion numbed reason from his thoughts and against the blank horror of it all at last he turned himself aside.

Upon the rank straw he laid himself down; his injured ribs and shoulder he left exposed to the lukewarm air as he curled himself up on his right side, and all too gladly he let the abyss of sleep claim him, and for a merciful while he knew no more in the waking world.

 

* * *

 

One hundred and forty three; one hundred and forty three stones there were that walled him in, all severe grey slate clouded across with darker pigments of black, blue and green. They looked like bruises, Maedhros thought dully; sixteen times he had counted them, sixteen times just to make sure that they did not change, that they could not add that new mockery to his suffering.

For different in their monstrosity were the orcs and uruks that intermittently brought him water and food, and the food was different too: a mash of some unfamiliar root vegetable, or rice tossed through with pungent, slimy mushrooms, or thick porridge, or once even the leftover scrapings from a pot of spiced goblin stew. That luxury had sent some dim, fawning sort of merriment spiralling through Maedhros’ heart, and how he hated himself for it.

No, sixteen times he had counted the stones, to make sure that they were the same, that they were real, more real than the phantoms that warred inside of his head.

For though the grim walls let no earthly sounds penetrate their bounds still voices whispered in Maedhros’ ears. The scratch and slither of the straw beneath him jerked sharp and sibilant in the lifeless air, the sound of his heartbeat was too loud, too loud, too loud. Sometimes he thought that he might go deaf with the din of it. Yet still that did not frighten him, no, the other voices did that, all those other voices that clamoured and called no matter how much he bade them be silent.

_Be brave, my son,_ his mother whispered, _be kind, be strong,_ and desperately he pressed himself to the ethereal warmth of her voice even as he bade her leave, he bade her go away and not behold him curled up there in his misery. But sometimes the words were not so sweet, sometimes they hurt him, scared him; _you were not so kind to me,_ Finno croaked, and his eyes were blinded, blood poured from his lips and it was Maedhros’ sword that caused it to run, that was skewered through his belly; _faithless, deserter, kinslayer._

_No,_ Maedhros would cry, _no, no, no, you’re not real! You’re not real…_ but even when Finno would sometimes go how the others hounded him. The Maia’s words curled through his head and like a fish upon a lure left him gasping; _where is Telvo now, Maitimo, does he scream still, under the weight of all that water?_ The Maia’s kiss pressed to the taut leather of the gag in those awful hours before was obscene, the Moringotto’s power speared through his skull until he was sure that it would split; bit by insidious bit Angband’s evil sank into his bones and alone in the darkness it bared its teeth.

“No,”he sobbed, he clutched at his head with gaunt, bloodless fingers and hoarsely he would cry, between perilous dreams and a waking that was no better he would lurch, and little solace would he find even in the blank moments between the two. The scabbed flesh over his ribs and shoulder tugged with each tormented movement, it drizzled blood and clotted chunks of viscera down his side, but numbly he would count the stones, and in their monotony perhaps for a while he would lose himself. He would outrun the fears that stalked him, that coiled and yowled and scratched deep in his innards, and would not let him rest for long.

One hundred and forty three: the stones did not change even as his body did. They did not suture flesh in skeins of translucent skin, nor thin away muscles slowly wasted from disuse; they were the same, they were always the same. Each stone was four times the span of his thumb and forefinger in length, and thrice in height; over and over again he measured all those he could reach and somehow the repetition of it reassured him, it smoothed down the horror that would hiss in his veins and for a while bade it be silent.

For how long they left him there he could not tell: days, a week, or more than that perhaps; the rune shone out its ceaseless, wan light above and there was scarce little to mark the passage of time save for the slow healing of his skin, and the occasional entrance of a jailor to bring him fresh food and water. The rattle of the bolt slid loose from its lock sent both terror and yearning expectation rushing through his veins, but though sometimes his captors would jeer at him, would spit at him, would flick the snared barbs of their whips just short of his legs and growl at him to move, they would not touch him.

Mechanically Maedhros would eat what was presented to him; he forced the food past his lips until he convinced himself that he was full, and perhaps into some nightmarish drowse he would slip, or haunted and dull-eyed he would stare at the unchanging stones and let himself drift.

It felt like he had been forgotten, the petulant thought tolled through his head. It felt as though Angband’s lords had turned their vicious whimsies from him and simply left him to rot. That thought irked him, wounded pride pricked within his veins, yet how swiftly it was tempered.

He reached to the healing mass of skin across his ribs, and he was not sure if his solitude was worse than being remembered.    

Once, tentatively, he had closed his eyes, and from deep within himself he had uncurled but one aspect of his _fëa_ ; that innate _osanwë_ long kept furled and hidden within himself he coaxed up, and timidly he sent it wandering. In such a hostile place it was not easy, the oppression of the fortress dulled the senses and cowed the spirit, but into the gullies of the stones he let himself slide, and their cold indifference helped to shield him from the malevolence that crawled through the air. 

Out of the cell his consciousness strayed, he crept down the corridor beyond until suddenly it seemed that the entire fortress reeled open before him. In his mind’s eye he could glimpse but a fraction of its immensity, as fuzzy passageways and blurred swathes of movement like strokes of paint splashed across a canvas it seemed to him; too saturated in colour, and disorienting, all startling reds and pale mauve and relentless, devouring black. Yet as he lingered there amid the stones slowly he mastered himself, a tiny surge of confidence rolled through his heart as images gradually coalesced and his will asserted itself. More clearly he glimpsed his surrounds, and he understood them a little better, and deeper then he delved. 

Angband’s enormity reared up about him, and like a tiny mote of light swallowed by a leviathan he could scarcely comprehend its volume. Layers of earth shifted and grumbled beneath him; wheels turned and hammers pounded and magma seethed and beasts glutted, and far above him towers spun up into the skies, rooms beyond count were carved from the bones of the mountains and there they loured. Everywhere hummed with energy, black malice thrummed through the fortress like a heartbeat, yet amid such colossal evil somehow he slipped unnoticed, one errant soul amid a slow maelstrom of horror, and as he drifted through the labyrinthine corridors sudden hope swelled in his heart.    

Upwards he sent his _fëa_ wandering, upwards, outwards, beyond the trappings of earth and flame and towards the open airs above, towards the freedom that it promised, and urgency spurred him onwards as that hope flooded through his veins. If he could break free of Angband’s walls, if just one garbled message he could send flashing across the lands, one flurried slam of his consciousness upon his brothers’ minds then true hope would be kindled anew. They would come for him, they would know, _they would have to come for him,_ and perhaps his torment would be put to an end. 

Through the stones he sent himself racing; through hidden, linear channels of mortar he ran, yet as he wound up through some dark rivulet of ancient stone, a new presence suddenly pressed upon his mind. 

There were others like him, trapped there in the dark; horror bloomed in his stomach as suddenly he could sense them, their _fëar_ glowing like faint smudges of light amid Angband’s gloom. Past them he slid, or through them, and disgust turned in him as he felt the ghosts of their pain brush over him; thousands upon thousands of consciousnesses pulsed as one in the shadows, and all of them were hurting. All of them were damaged, crippled: resting, labouring, fucking, bleeding, all of them were _hurting_ , sudden panic burned in Maedhros’ veins and desperately he tore himself past them. 

Yet though many of those little lights remained static in their misery some of them changed, some recoiled but some drew nearer to him. Warily they crooned to him in some broken, strange tongue, but he could not understand them, and he would not stop to listen. For desperation churned in his heart and heedlessly he pushed past them; everything was suddenly too tight, too small, the very air seemed stolen from his lungs and he had to get out, he had to get out, he had to get out. He could not become like them, he would not, dim and bleating and lost, he would not; through aetherous darkness and strangling stone he tore his way to Angband’s outer walls, thick and brooding with malice.      

He would slip past them, he told himself, he would evade them, break them, rip them down, panic screamed in his veins and in that moment he simply did not care. _Stop,_ a voice cried, a voice in his own tongue, but he would not listen, he threw himself at those waiting walls, and a gout of pain erupted through his skull.

Whiteness seared across his vision, and he simply keened in agony as every sense was assaulted: fizzing, incandescent malice howled in his ears, his throat, his eyes, it tore apart thoughts and shook bravery to pieces, and in its grasp Maedhros could but convulse until at last it relinquished him. Through the bleary miasma of semi-consciousness it cast him out, naked before Angband’s oppressive evil it left him, and how utterly he quailed before it. Yet through his madness little wraiths seemed to flit about him, ghostly lights keened with his hurt and nudged sympathetically about him, they lent him what healing they could and softly guided him back to himself, and blindly he followed where they led.   

Into his cell his _fëa_ retreated, back into _hröa_ it sank and there curled up to lick at its wounds, and how Maedhros whined as that sense of loneliness was only magnified. Down to the bone he felt polluted; the brand upon his chest throbbed and itched yet he could not bring himself to scratch it. From where he slumped against the wall he curled his aching head into his hands and simply wept as the nauseating aftershocks of that trauma rolled through him. 

He couldn’t reach them; his brothers, his kindred, he couldn’t get out, that slim line of hope was so cruelly severed before his eyes and perhaps that was one evil too many. For there was nothing but the black hum of the Moringotto’s malice curled like a devouring serpent about Angband’s walls, and his iron will suffered none to pass.

 

* * *

 

The next day they came for him, and of what horrors they put to him truly he did not remember much.

A bench, he recalled later, miserable and sore he curled himself up atop his straw, his hands hugged tightly about himself as he tried to shield himself from the memories that lunged at him.

There was a bench, and they had tied him down atop it, that much he knew at least. They had ripped the stained kilt from his waist and how they had jeered at his nakedness. Clawed hands had groped up his thighs, had slapped him, punched him; a mailed fist smashed into his solar plexus and sent the breath rattling from his lungs. They were softer with him then; their touches were so much _worse_ , an uruk’s thick fingers had stroked up his flaccid length between his thighs, and maybe that was when he had bucked, he had thrashed and fought and struggled, and how viciously then they had laughed.

A cloth tourniquet one bound about his arm, it had squeezed so tight that he thought the veins might burst from his skin in their distress, and desperately he had tugged and twisted in his bonds as he saw the syringe in an orc’s gnarled fingers. Dark, viscous fluid gathered in the syringe’s barrel, gleefully they had shoved it into a vein left throbbing across his bicep, and after that came only delirium.

Something burned over his stomach, again and again they spoke to him, and their leering faces dragged in and out of focus with sick irregularity: out with the pounding rush of the drug in his veins and in with the agony of searing metal pressed into his flesh.  

Naked and shivering upon his straw he shifted his fingers from their protective curl across his abdomen; his collar and its hateful chain clinked as he dared to glance down at himself. Blistered into his lower stomach six livid lines stood swollen and red and angry, and swiftly he looked away. Hard then he clamped his fingers down over those burns, he held them as if somehow that pressure could erase the hurt of what had been done.

He mustn’t have told them, he thought dimly, he mustn’t have told them what they wanted. The drug had made him feel so dizzy, the ceiling had snatched and danced and roared overhead, his senses came all inverse and undone until he was left simply shivering upon that vile bench.

He could still feel the raw flesh in his throat where the bile had come searing up from his stomach, voices had snapped and quarrelled about him and he could still feel the bruises upon his face where the orc had gripped him as he vomited. He could almost taste its foul skin upon his tongue as it had forced its airways to clear, he had choked and moaned and gasped around its fingers and then he remembered no more. 

The pressure of his shoulder jammed into the unyielding stone urged him to shift, and as tenderly he manoeuvred himself about, he noticed the bowl of porridge and flagon of water set cooling by his side. The orcs must have left them there when they returned him to his cell, he thought, but though he knew that he must be hungry, he pushed the porridge away. He did not want it, he did not ever want to eat anything from them again, and though he took a few small sips of water to clear the foul taste from his mouth, the food he would not touch. 

So it continued, time rolled forwards in its monotony and there was nothing but the dull throb of pain and the soft sighs of his breath to break the unending stupor. The stones were the same, he counted them again: the breath had burned in his lungs as he held it, as terror clawed through his veins, but the stones were the same, they were safe, they were constant. One hundred and forty three, blank and dour, and whether that truth brought him relief, or despair, or some vague sort of emptiness he could not tell.

Plates of food grew stale in the mournful days that followed. The water he would grudgingly drink, but food went uneaten despite the hunger that yammered in his belly. Five times his captors had come, and they were seemingly uncaring of his behaviours: wordlessly they had switched uneaten food for fresh servings and departed as abruptly as they came, but upon the sixth time, the orc paused in its duties.

“Eat,” it snapped at him. Its squashed fangs it bared in a rictus of disgust, menacing and tall it stood over Maedhros sitting shrunken into the corner of the cell, but dully he regarded it. 

His hair hung lank and greasy about his cheeks, the first unhealthy hint of ribs showed through the grimed skin of his torso, but though fright had pulsed through him at the severity of the orc’s tone, he would not succumb to it. It was so much easier not to care, he thought, left leashed and abused like an animal it was the only rebellion that he had left to muster, and weakly he croaked, “No.” 

At that the orc balked, a spasm of some indeterminate emotion passed over its ugly features, but without further word or deed of violence it departed, and into the silence that descended within the cell Maedhros let himself drift. 

It did not take long for them to return. The rattle of the bolt sent adrenaline cramping through Maedhros’ innards, and from where he now lay curled up amid the scattered straw swiftly he drew himself tighter. For into the cell strode a burly uruk, a captain or overseer marked by the cream-white wolf’s teeth that adorned its leather pauldrons, and at the sight of the thick truncheon that swung from its belt Maedhros turned his face away.

A vicious jerk upon the chain that tethered his collar set him spluttering; pressure slammed into the delicate tissues of his throat and hurriedly he scrambled to his knees as the uruk hauled him upwards. His hands knitted between his thighs to conceal his nakedness as roughly the uruk gripped him by the collar, as it shook him, as down into his face it snarled, “You will eat.”

“N-no…” Maedhros choked; the sheer force of the uruk’s motions shook the word from his lips, and though the uruk’s hairy brow furrowed into a scowl of displeasure, he would not allow it to daunt him. It could not control him, it could not force him, and as it kicked the bowl of porridge between his spread knees Maedhros turned his head aside in refusal. 

“Pick it up and eat it,” the uruk growled; a vicious shove sent Maedhros’ head bowing as the uruk discarded him, as it drew instead the truncheon from its belt. Hard it clunked the weapon into Maedhros’ cheek, and with the blunt end of it pushed his face towards the bowl. “Now.” 

“No.” 

The blow that smashed into his ribs was almost worth the momentary victory of insurrection; the breath rushed out of his lungs in one whooping cough and left him gasping, and even as he swayed and spluttered upon his knees the uruk grappled him. His right arm it forced into its grip, it forced his right hand to splay out before him, and his shriek as the uruk grasped his forefinger and snapped clean through the bone was wrenching in its agony.  

Pain lanced up Maedhros’ arm, and he had barely the time to draw a new breath into his lungs when the uruk grasped his middle finger and broke it at the joint. Grievously then he twisted, he trembled and moaned as the uruk grasped both ring and little finger as one, and sparkles of red, seething light flashed across his vision as it crunched through them both. An anguished howl tore itself from his lips; he could scarcely cradle his mangled fingers to his chest as the uruk dropped his hand, and frantically he struggled as it stepped about him, as it yanked his left hand upwards and brutally began to twist.

“Please…” Maedhros whimpered; the fresh pressure across his knuckles was almost unbearable and desperately he bleated: “Please, please, stop... St-“

A guttural shriek ripped through the cell as bones cracked; clean again the uruk clove through the fore and middle fingers of his left hand, and beneath the agony that flared up his arm Maedhros writhed. Swiftly though the uruk relinquished him; dark, hurting tears trickled down his cheeks as he carefully clutched his hands into the curvature of his belly, yet fleeting was that small comfort as the solid impact of the uruk’s truncheon across his shoulders sent him sprawling forwards.

A scream gurgled out of his throat as instinctively he thrust his arms out to catch himself, as broken fingers crushed into the remorseless slate, and upon hands and knees the uruk forced him to stay. How hatefully it leered above him, a vicious shove to the back of his head pressed such awful weight upon his mangled hands, and beneath his face the uruk kicked over the bowl of porridge.

Cold, thick oats slopped to the floor, revulsion turned in Maedhros’ stomach, but above him the uruk growled, “Eat it like a dog, then.”

His hesitation earned him nothing but the truncheon slamming again into his ribs; a visceral sob exploded from his lungs and as the pain throbbing from his hands and the sheer degradation of it all became far too much, something withered inside of him, and though shame flushed over his cheeks at last he relented. Upon trembling arms and crooked, broken fingers he lowered his head, and his eyes squeezed shut with the horror of it as clumsily he took up a mouthful of food. The texture of it upon his tongue was repellent, desperately he fought to keep from gagging as for a moment he chewed through it, but the menacing tap of the uruk’s truncheon upon his quivering shoulders forced him to swallow. 

How long it took for him to finish his meal he did not ever want to know. Time scattered into each gulping swallow of porridge bitten off of the floor, into the pressure of the uruk’s truncheon crushing down upon his spine, into the throb of dislocated joints and shattered bones as again and again he was forced to take the weight of his torso upon his ruined hands. Upon his palms he tried to place most of the pressure; his fingers he left splayed and vulnerable across the floor and he tried not to look at them as they swelled, as they reddened, as bones jutted beneath skin in visible misalignment. 

Silent tears of humiliation trickled down his cheeks as finally he thought himself done, but with all too much glee the uruk ground his face down into the slate. Desperately he licked every last trace of porridge off of the filthy floor, but even as then he tried to rise the uruk’s truncheon jammed between his shoulder blades and forced him to kneel there, almost prostrate save for the awkward contortion of his arms half-folded beneath his chest. 

“Not so hard, nar?” the uruk sneered; it ground the truncheon into Maedhros’ spine and desperately he tried to brace himself. Upon the heel of his palm he shoved the weight of his torso, the uninjured ring and little finger of his left hand spread wide and pale against the stones as upon them also he bore a modicum of weight, yet as the pressure of the uruk’s weapon upon him became unbearable at last he cried out. 

“No…” he gasped; broken and breathy were his words as he whimpered them into the floor. “N-no…” 

“Good,” the uruk snapped, and relief flowed through Maedhros’ heart at the finality in its tone. It might go away now, he thought desperately, it might leave him alone to curl up with his hurts and just fade away, but how cruelly were such tender hopes answered. 

For as his unbroken fingers splayed across the stones the uruk stamped viciously down upon them, his ring and little finger it crunched beneath the heel of its boot, and how Maedhros screamed as the agony of their breaking rocked through his body. 

Only then did the uruk depart, only once its cruelties were fully done. Broken and humiliated it left him lying there; back to his prickly bed of straw he shuffled as best as he could and there lay himself down, and bitter were his tears as he cradled his mangled hands to his stomach and tried to shield them from all the hatefulness of the world. 

Alone there in terror and in pain he was left to dwell, until his sobs ebbed out into nothingness, into exhausted sleep, and Angband’s evil etched itself deeper into his heart and it could not be undone.        

 

 

 

* * *

_It seems like it's been nearly 10,000 years since I last updated, but here we have it, and the hugest thank you to everyone who was so patient and encouraging in the interim period. I sincerely hope the wait was worth it, and poor Maedhros has plenty more evils in store for him, hopefully to be written at a slightly less glacial pace this time, so don't stray too far! As usual, questions, comments or concerns are very welcome, either here or on Tumblr. Thanks so much everyone who's put up with the slowness of my updating schedule, and hope to see you back next time! theeventualwinner x_

 


	6. In The Marrow

The ensorcelled rune bled its wan, colourless light into the cell, and below it Maedhros shivered. A faint, ammoniac scent hung in the air, a sickly sheen of sweat clung to his skin as he hunched into the stale straw below him. A day may have turned; hours, seconds, minutes, what meaning had time in this place of misery? It was only a vector for more senseless violence, it carried them like a disease, marked in the dreadful rattle of the bolt within the lock of the door, and each baleful tinkle of the chain leashed to his throat. 

Greasy, tangled hair straggled across his cheeks as upon the damp straw he stirred, lucidity for a moment snatched him into its claws, and how he prayed for oblivion once more. Bruises ached upon his ribs from where his captor’s truncheon had slammed into his side, sour saliva congealed upon his tongue as thirst prickled through him, yet how he sought to dissolve himself into such mild discomforts. He sought to blot out all other evils, yet with an involuntary twitch of cramped, abused muscles how swiftly he came undone.

As ghoulish claws his hands curled into his chest; flesh swollen purple with trauma distorted all that once was healthy, bones jutted in visible misalignment beneath his skin, and miserably he pressed his face into the straw as their hurt pounded through him. Each reflexive tremble of his hands set pain erupting through his arms, bones grated and tendons scraped; they tore the breath from his lungs, and he could only curl himself up the tighter, and grit his teeth, and endure.

The stones of the walls were too real, too solid; over and over again he counted them, one hundred and forty-three blank, uncaring faces staring down at him, and under them he faded. The straw rotted beneath him and he with it, for each horrible glimpse of his hands was as the breaking of bone done afresh, each clink of the chain and collar at his throat was just another scorn, another humiliation, another hateful, twisted, leering figure come to haunt him. 

He should not fear them, he thought, shadows and echoes clouded through his mind but he should not fear them, _he should not_ ; he had to be strong. He had promised them, he had promised them that he would be strong, his mother, his father, his brothers, he had sworn to them that he would be brave, that he would be kind, that he would be all that a lord should be. _Lá axan, lá melmë, lá lárr maciliva, caurë hya raxë, lá mandë imma_ ; neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself: those words still flowed in his blood, but for their potency so too came corruption, with the turning of the grim hours how other thoughts began to gnaw at him.

His brothers had betrayed him, abandoned him, they had left him here to suffer. They had sold him, the lieutenant had said so, pain scoured the words into Maedhros’ heart and left them there to fester. 

Shallow, uneasy breaths flitted over his lips; _wretched, worthless_ , the stones seemed to say, and even the hollow rhythms of his counting could not dispel their malice, their constant weight of oppression. Thirst scratched at his throat and with it he trembled, the flagon of water given to him he had long since drained, and bound to his suffering he remained. Sinuous, dizzying dreams waltzed through his head, through delirium and lethargy and the sickly hum of shock he wandered, yet even their ephemeral comforts were so cruelly stripped away as the rattle of the lock sounded once more.

Fear slammed through his heart so hard his chest ached with the impact of it, like a wounded, frightened animal he only curled himself up all the tighter and prayed for it to go away, yet he was brought to sore dismay, as through slitted eyes he glimpsed the brute figure that strode through the doorway. He could scarcely stifle the whimper of terror that quavered in his throat as he saw the dreadful truncheon dangling from the uruk’s belt, metal-shod boots crunched into the floor and Maedhros cringed away from them; the uruk slammed the door shut in its wake and stood menacingly there before him. A cruel light shone in its piggish eyes, in its meaty hand was clasped a wooden bowl and a swinging waterskin, and as it looked upon Maedhros’ shivering, shrunken form upon the floor a smile twitched at its lips. 

The veil of hair thrown across Maedhros’ face could not conceal his breath of horror as with such malevolent intent the uruk turned its hand; a globulous, mealy mass of porridge slipped from the bowl and splattered down to the floor, and from even that small, squelching impact Maedhros recoiled. The rank scent of oatmeal and curdled milk clung in his throat, and weary disgust turned in his stomach as the uruk spat a thick gobbet of phlegm down into the mess upon the floor. 

“Get licking, dog,” it growled; horror tolled in Maedhros’ heart, and weakly, desperately, aghast, Maedhros shook his head. 

For a moment the uruk simply stared at him, his heart clambered all sick and churning up into his throat but defiance bred from utter revulsion steeled him, it made him strong for one glimmering moment. Yet as the uruk’s meaty hands grasped for the truncheon how swiftly that steel buckled: those bruises were still too fresh, the uruk’s grimace was all too eager, _it would only do something worse,_ and in the end that new terror won out. Upon filthy knees Maedhros hauled himself upwards, chain links chattered like ugly little stars as they fell away from his throat, and clumsily he shuffled forwards, his injured hands cradled protectively into his stomach.

Pain nipped at his fingers even with that subtle movement, his thighs trembled as he paused before the mess of food spilled across the floor; the uruk’s smile above him widened, and nothing but repugnance sank into Maedhros’ heart. He would have to bend down, he would have to take his weight upon his hands, he would have to debase himself, to hurt himself again just for his captor’s pleasure; the sheer abhorrence of it set his bruised hands shaking, and a desperate whine bubbling up in his chest. Yet even as he hesitated there upon his knees the uruk clouted him about the head; the open-handed blow left his skull ringing with the concussion of it, and a miserable whimper echoed about the cell as slowly he lowered himself before the uruk’s feet.  

He was so horribly conscious of the splaying of his thighs as he sought to balance himself, the humiliation of his nudity seemed toppled down upon him, yet worse still was the paralysing numbness of anticipation; the crushing, strangling expectation of pain. The effort of will to outstretch his hands before him was almost too great to bear, to straighten crooked, swollen fingers, to place abused flesh delicately upon the stones, and desperately he forced down a cry of anguish as the uruk’s patience waned. 

Roughly it seized him by the hair, it shoved his head down, agony crackled through Maedhros’ fingers as he was forced to bend, to take his weight fully upon them. It felt as though bones would splinter anew, that joints would rupture, tendons snap, pain seethed through him and strangled the cry from his lungs. He was simply left there gasping as the uruk relinquished him, he pushed as much weight as he could onto the balls of his palms to free but a modicum of pressure from his fingers, and he tried desperately not to look at the horrid, unnatural junctures left cleaved into his flesh.

“’m not here to watch you whimper,” the uruk snarled; the cold, blunt bole of the truncheon pressed suddenly between Maedhros’ shoulder blades, and beneath its menacing weight Maedhros bowed. Pain shuddered up his arms as he lowered his face to the floor, as he clumsily took up a bite of porridge, like an animal, like a _slave_ , _like some pitiful, worthless thing just to be abused_ ; how fervidly he tried to block out the horrible thoughts that tumbled through his mind.  

Piece by aching, trembling, humiliating piece he bit that foul porridge from the floor, the taste of rancid milk caught upon his tongue and near set him retching, but ever the uruk’s foetid breath billowed over his back, the truncheon crushed remorselessly into his spine, and he desperately choked down what meagre mouthfuls he could. The last few bites truly made him gag, the uruk made sure of that; the truncheon came crunching down upon his neck as it forced him to lick each morsel of porridge off of the gritty floor.

At last the uruk huffed in approval; the muscles of Maedhros’ shoulders clenched and trembled as he coughed in the wake of his last, vile mouthful, pain scudded up his arms and desperately he blinked back the the tears of degradation that prickled behind his eyes. Upon his hands and knees the uruk left him for a moment, before it dropped the waterskin down before him, and heedless of his discomfort Maedhros lunged for it. 

To his knees he straightened, he grasped the skin clumsily between the very base of his palms and with his teeth yanked free the stopper, and desperately he gulped down the water. It for a moment soothed the thirst from his throat, it rinsed the acrid grit from his tongue, yet even as he drank, shivers tore through his limbs. His hands shook grievously until they threatened to loose the skin from his lips, his thighs cramped and trembled beneath him, and he could not bid them be still. A wave of dizziness rolled suddenly through him, everything for one awful moment blurred; the cell listed to its side like a ship keeling to its ruin, and with it Maedhros reeled. 

To his side he all but fell, his head clunked back into the wall as he slumped against it; there was only the rapid inhalations of his breath and the quick quick quick beat of his heart as the uruk stepped towards him. It snatched the skin from his hands and he could scarcely whimper as the motion tore at his fingers, dizziness heaved through him and everything spun, everything moiled and rolled and shifted, everything but the thirst that somehow still plucked at his throat. 

“Please…” he whispered, his voice hoarse, crumpled down into his chest. “M-more. C-can I have more? Water…”

At that the uruk huffed, its eyes narrowed as it looked sharply to him, and between Maedhros’ crooked, splayed legs it dropped into a narrow crouch before him.

“Please… I’m so th-thirsty, _please_ …”

A clawed hand reached for his face, and Maedhros could only whimper as the uruk grasped him by the cheek. Involuntary tremors flitted through his body, it seemed as though lead weighed down his limbs; it was only the uruk’s hand upon his face that stopped his head from lolling as it plucked suddenly at his lower lip, tugging it sharply downwards. Intently then the uruk peered at him, its eyes roved over the dark, distressed veins that swum through the pale skin of his inner lip, and at the bluish pallor that clouded across such sensitive flesh the uruk grunted in displeasure. Its squat, yellowed fangs showed beneath a curled lip as it prodded then at Maedhros’ cheek, it dragged the flesh beneath his eye downwards to expose pallid, unhealthy tissue, and limply Maedhros let it.

For it seemed as if all the strength had been sapped from his limbs, and the will to resist along with it; it was all that he could do to not utterly collapse beneath the uruk’s probing fingers as another horrifying wave of dizziness washed through him. The porridge settling in his stomach made it him feel sick, engorged and distended like some rotted, bloating thing, and he slouched back against the wall as the uruk relinquished him. Up it stepped, and away, and dim, cowardly relief pulsed in Maedhros’ innards as without further hateful word or deed it strode towards the door, collecting up stray dishes as it went, and left him to his solitude. 

It was a tremendous effort of will simply to stop the room from spinning, the stones seemed to bleed and whorl with such terrible lassitude, and how desperately Maedhros wished for them to be still. He couldn’t count them if they moved, he couldn’t count them, he couldn’t know if they were real; it felt as if the very fabric of the world might be split apart by the nausea that rolled in his stomach, that poisoned his very thoughts, that spun reason into madness and cast him to its claws. But at last everything seemed to steady, at least for a little while, with the stones at his back he hauled himself upright and shuffled back to the straw, and there he curled himself up once more. The chain tangled about his legs, his mangled, throbbing hands he cradled up into his chest, thirst once more scoured his throat, and dimly he bade it be silent. 

He wished only that these evils might come to an end, and how awful was the knowledge that they would not. 

For all too soon came the rattle of the lock anew, figures pressed into the yawning aperture of the door and from them Maedhros shied away. They had come back too quickly, too soon, maybe he had done something wrong, maybe if he was quiet then they would just leave him alone, maybe – 

Snarls of incomprehensible orcish passed between his captors, and as one stepped into the cell desperately Maedhros screwed his eyes shut; he hunkered down into himself and only prayed that they might leave. For a few breathless moments there was only silence, and stillness; no vicious yank upon the chain or fingers knotted through his hair, yet still anticipation yammered in Maedhros’ heart. 

“I wished we should not meet again, Maitimo.” 

The breath hitched in Maedhros’ throat, he scarcely dared to squint up at the small, shrewd orc who stood before him, a wide bandoleer strapped across its chest and that familiar bitter ochre plastered through its ropy hair. Styrrak, Styrrak it was named, it had told him so, all that time ago, that dark, hurting time clouded only in a haze of red smashed across his back. 

“It seems I am denied in my will.” 

And as the orc spoke it seemed that something shattered inside of Maedhros’ chest: rage, pain, hatred, fear, and what tiny, treacherous coils of relief came all boiling up and bladed in venom. It was all simply too much to fathom, a rattling breath he gulped into his lungs, and with as much failing strength as he could push into his voice he cried, “Go away!” 

Something that sounded hideously like laughter emanated from the doorway, a piteous keen bled from Maedhros’ throat as Styrrak slowly stepped towards him, and he tried so hard not to hear as the orc said, “I cannot.” 

A taut, panicky breath hissed through Maedhros’ teeth, yet calmly the orc regarded him, it crouched down before his face half-buried into the straw and continued, “It has been tasked of me to make you heal, to make you whole once more, and this I will do.” 

For all the soothing lilt in Styrrak’s voice such unquenchable fright bubbled in Maedhros’ chest as the orc moved a little nearer to him, as one slender hand reached out to touch him, and violently he jerked away. 

“No!” he bleated, “No! G-go away!” Pain flared up his arms as the movement jostled broken bones, and shrilly he whimpered as their agony hammered through his fingers. He simply pressed his face into the straw and moaned, “Leave me alone.” 

To that Styrrak did not reply. The orc’s dark, glittering eyes swept over Maedhros’ trembling, bruised ribs left exposed in the light, it beheld the unhealthy sheen of sweat that dotted over his scarred back, but its counsels remained its own. 

To the jailor who lingered in the doorway Styrrak turned then, a flagon of fresh water was passed from uruk to orc, who then turned back to Maedhros. 

“Come, Maitimo,” Styrrak said gently, coaxingly. “Stop this foolishness now, hmm? Come sit, sit and drink.” 

He loathed the orc’s words, he loathed every condescending syllable it uttered, yet how desperately he wished for the flagon in its hand, and at last his thirst drove him to relent. Gingerly, warily, Maedhros uncurled himself, upon one filthy elbow he raised himself up, before clumsily sinking back into a shallow sitting position against the far wall. Lank hair clung to his cheeks as dully he looked upon Styrrak squatting before him, yet there was no malice in the orc’s dark eyes as it passed to him the flagon, only a curious sort of reproach. Awkwardly Maedhros received the vessel, his fingers twitched and ached, and clasping it once more between the base of his palms he raised the flagon to his lips, and as the first of that cool water ran over his tongue how he delighted in its crispness. 

“Slowly,” Styrrak murmured, “slowly now,” but it allowed him to finish unmolested, and how galling was the fawning gratitude that thrummed in his innards for the orc’s distance. At last he drained the flagon, and from his trembling, swollen hands Styrrak gently collected it, before passing it to the uruk who loured still in the doorway. 

“ _Thrak jirth rhunkar_ ,” Styrrak said to it, “ _agh slithna_.” 

The words held no meaning to Maedhros’ ears, and nervously he watched as a strange expression of discomfort contorted the uruk’s features. 

“ _Ran_ ,” it growled, “ _Mairon-khur dithgi_ -” 

“ _Portharska kri dithgi,_ ” Styrrak snapped. _“Bâl!”_

For a moment more the uruk hesitated, but then it nodded curtly and departed, slamming the door in its wake. At that Styrrak muttered something dark under its breath, but the words meant nothing to Maedhros, and anxiously he waited as the orc turned back to him fully. 

“Come,” Styrrak said, its eyes dropping to Maedhros’ injured hands, and into a comfortable kneel it settled itself before him. “These we must mend, hmm?”

Something churlish stirred in Maedhros’ heart, his left forefinger twitched involuntarily and sent a spike of pain twisting through his palm and wrist, and with it Maedhros’ head bowed. 

“What…” His voice was scarcely more than a croak, he licked his lips and tried again. “What’s the point?” 

The expression upon Styrrak’s face was inscrutable, and hatefully Maedhros spat, “You only want to heal me so… so you can hurt me again…” 

“This is not what I want.” The quiet sincerity in Styrrak’s tone set shame tipping through Maedhros’ innards, and helplessly he looked to the orc as it continued, “But perhaps these things they must come to pass, though they are not of my making.” 

Slowly then Styrrak reached for the clasps to a small pouch sewn into its bandoleer, a leather strap securing a bottle of dark fluid sprang loose, and as Styrrak pulled it into hand, hurriedly Maedhros recoiled. Against the wall he curled himself up once more, hatefully he glared at the orc and at the medical paraphernalia it carried, and fervently he wished them gone. For what was the use; in the heart of Angband’s evil healing only brought suffering, unease, terror; it wiped the canvas clean for a fresh coating of hurt, for the next torturer to wreak their trade upon vulnerable skin. 

“Calm,” Styrrak murmured, it raised its hands in a placating gesture of surrender and for a moment withdrew, and as the heartbeats passed without further incident Maedhros dared a wary glance at it from beneath the ragged fall of his hair. 

Before him then Styrrak neatly set the vial down, and unfastening a series of knots upon its bandoleer placed other items beside it: a pinch of dried, crumbled herbs the colour of wine, a length of clean bandages, a stoppered bottle of translucent glass half full of a viscous, white poultice, and worriedly Maedhros gazed at them. An acrid-smelling, bright yellow powder the orc shook from a pouch into a small slate bowl, and glimpsing Maedhros’ gaze softening upon it, Styrrak gently laid it beside the rest, and gesturing to the first vial said, “Iodine, for cleaning.” 

Maedhros could detect no lie in its voice, and his eyes flitted to Styrrak’s short, neat nails as the orc tapped upon the stones. _“Thorrhûn,_ ” it said, indicating the purpled herbs. “We make from _urkhal_ shoots, trapped down deep in caverns below. Rare, not in growth but in medicine, see? _Orkhir,_ the young ones, they are too fond of smoking the stuff, _nar_ , but for pain there is no better. Mix with milk of poppy and _kurth_ , here,” Styrrak continued, loosening the stopper upon the glass bottle, and then nodding to the vibrant yellow powder. “Arnica and turmeric, for swelling and infection. No leechcraft here, see, no magics, only herb-lore. This you know, hmm? This you must trust.”       

Pain throbbed through Maedhros’ hands; abhorrence and desperation waged their war within him, and though the weakness of it sickened him at last he yielded. His mangled hands he lifted to rest lightly upon his thighs for Styrrak’s inspection, he tried not to look upon them as the orc bent closer to him. 

A hiss of pain surged up his throat as Styrrak slowly raised his left hand at the wrist, he turned his head aside as the orc placed his fingers across its palm and pored across the run of broken bones, over the deep, inflamed bruising that marked them. The pits of his knuckles were swollen beyond measure, turgid fluid congealed in the joints of his phalanges and mottled such fragile skin a pallid, unhealthy beige, and Maedhros’ stomach turned as he felt bones shift whilst Styrrak slowly rotated his wrist. 

“Not so bad, not so bad, hmm,” the orc murmured; a strangled whimper leapt to Maedhros’ throat as Styrrak brushed over the grotesque, fluid-filled swelling upon his fourth knuckle, and over it sprinkled a generous measure of the yellow powder. About his knuckles then Styrrak wound a short length of bandage, a sharp breath of pain hissed over his lips as it was pulled tight and secured, but at his obvious attempts at remaining passive Styrrak smiled at him.

As best as he could he sat still as Styrrak rinsed his hand in iodine; he chewed the inside of his lip raw as the liquid stung every scabbed abrasion, as it burned in the broken crevices of skin around fingernails blackened with congealed blood. A thick coating of poultice Styrrak then slaked across him, and dusted it over with the crumbled _thorrhûn_ herbs, and Maedhros watched in alarm as the cream fizzed slightly where the herbs rested upon it. But swiftly that alarm was smoothed away into simple bliss as numbness seeped through skin and bone alike, pain was dulled away, and more readily Maedhros extended his right hand as Styrrak laid his left aside. 

Blood-blisters flecked his forefinger like a pestilence, they clustered like haemophilic lice amid the dark swirls of bruises, and blankly Maedhros stared down at them as Styrrak tipped the remains of the iodine over his knuckles. It was the deformity about his middle finger which caused the orc to pause; the middle phalange gruesome and swollen, and Maedhros audibly gulped as Styrrak touched it. 

A frown knotted the orc’s brows, again he prodded at the swelling, and at Maedhros’ yelp of pain, sighed, “This one. It is broken wrong. The bone is cleft, and it will not heal in its natural course. It must be set right, hmm, it must be done anew, see?”

Dimly Maedhros nodded, pain throbbed through his hand and he longed for it to simply be done, for whatever hurts must be inflicted to just be over; he gritted his teeth so hard it felt that they might loosen from their sockets as Styrrak took hold of his finger.

A tortured grunt of pain he squealed into the cell’s dour confines as bone crunched, grated, slid; a fresh sheen of sweat broke over his forehead as agony howled up his arm, and as he slumped back against the wall in exhaustion softly Styrrak spoke to him. 

“There,” the orc said calmly, “there, it is done. It is done now.” 

Swiftly the orc daubed a thick measure of poultice and herbs across his hand, it bubbled and fizzed and how grateful Maedhros was for the waves of utter oblivion that quickly flowed across his palm. Styrrak carefully bandaged his hand, swaddling finger and palm into a soft, immobile brace, but Maedhros scarcely felt it, he closed his eyes as that great chasm of relief, of simply not hurting, reeled open inside of him. For how long he wavered upon its edge he did not know, he longed to simply plunge into its depths, but Styrrak’s fingers upon his shoulder drew him for a time back to clarity. 

It took him a moment to realise that the orc was speaking to him; everything sounded warped and sluggish as shock and stress and such giddying relief whirled within him, but intently Styrrak peered at him, and Maedhros tried to hold the orc’s gaze. 

“You must obey them,” the orc was saying, and with eyes blown wide with delirium Maedhros stared back. “Obey, and they will not hurt you.” 

Obey them? _Obey them?_ The words speared into Maedhros’ heart and dragged up only despair. For he could not, he could not obey them, stress and fatigue tangled the thoughts together in his head but this much he knew to be true; he could not obey them, no matter how much he longed to, he could not do it. He knew what the Moringotto and his lieutenant sought, and he could not give them that, for to do so would be to betray himself, to betray everyone that he had ever known, to cast them aside for a snatch at some guileful, fleeting comfort. He could not do it, _he could not do it_ , and before Styrrak then he slowly shook his head.

“They…” he whispered, his tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth, the stones seemed to undulate beneath him, “They wouldn’t…” 

The abrupt opening of the door sent the words skidding from his lips, fright shook through him as the uruk jailor suddenly stomped into the cell, and grievously he shied away from it. Into the wall he curled himself, he cradled his head into the juncture of his knees as the uruk looked contemptuously down upon him.

In its own tongue the uruk barked something to Styrrak, who replied in kind, and swiftly fastened the scant remainders of its supplies back into its bandoleer.

“Come, Maitimo,” Styrrak said gently, it aided him in stiffly shuffling himself some small distance along the stones, and wearily Maedhros did what he was bidden. Yet how his heart lurched as a moment later Styrrak unfurled a woollen blanket, grudgingly supplied by the scowling uruk, and draped it neatly over him where he sat. For a moment he simply froze; the wool was itchy upon his skin but he scarcely cared, and as shock fell away to simmering happiness as best as he could with his numb hands he clutched it into himself. It felt so wondrous to simply have something to conceal his nakedness, a thin skein of fabric to shield him from the world, yet he jumped in fright as the uruk suddenly kicked away his pile of stale straw. 

With wide, worried eyes Maedhros watched as it and Styrrak swiftly cleared the cell of matted, damp straw, only to scatter a thick, fresh covering atop the bare stones, ferried in from the corridor outside. The straw’s sweet fragrance burst through the air, for a moment it steadied Maedhros from the fright that gnawed at him, and after the uruk had exited the cell and showed no signs of returning, timidly Maedhros asked, “Why?” 

Styrrak scuffed a few stray strands of straw back into the main pile as it turned to him, but gently then said, “It am instructed that you are to mend, to heal, hmm? Better clean than not, if the lords say you must stay here.” 

Rank dismay curled in Maedhros’ stomach, suddenly that sweetness turned only to malice, and how tightly it throttled him as he choked, “I h-have to… stay…” 

“I am sorry.” There was no true remorse in Styrrak’s voice, only a mournful sort of impassiveness. 

And perhaps that was just one injury too many; hot, stinging tears prickled behind Maedhros’ eyes and desperately he blinked them back. He screwed his eyes shut, as best as he could he clutched into the blanket and nodded in reply, and too late he came to quell the despair that smashed through him. For how could he have been so stupid to even dare to imagine that Styrrak’s visit would change anything, that it might mean something, that tiny fragile hope was shattered before his eyes, and maybe the Moringotto was right, he was stupid, he was worthless, just a stupid little prince left abandoned in the misery of the world, and all of them were wracked with mirth at his suffering. 

His head bowed into his blanketed knees, and desperately he tried to swallow back his sobs. For a long moment Styrrak watched him, the orc seemed about to say something, but a wincing smile passed over its face, and for a time it remained silent. 

“Farewell, Maitimo,” it said at last, before treading quietly from the room and bolting the door behind it. “May our parting be longer, this time.”

Time bled away as he sat there huddled against the wall, it crawled into the despair that threatened to devour him and there lay down to rot. Yet at last he roused himself from his misery, clasping the blanket between his numb palms he shuffled over to the fresh pile of straw and arranged himself upon it. Into an almost pleasant mattress he fluffed it, he cocooned himself up in the blanket and how exquisite it felt to have something to cover himself; he delighted in the heat that it trapped against his skin, and for what seemed like the first time in an eternity the slightest rill of contentment chimed in his heart.

For how keenly did that fresh straw remind him of the places that he used to love; the grand doors of his father’s stables thrown open and the gentle snorts of his horses within, and for a time Maedhros wandered there in memory. Laurelin’s mellifluous light streamed in through wide, airy windows cut into the smooth brickwork, warm and golden it illumined only peace, only idle happiness; a fat tomcat wound about his legs as he meandered through the stable blocks, bumblebees hummed amid the viridian blooms of flowerpots hung upon hand-crafted hooks, and contentedly he walked in their midst. The sweet smell of hay fresh-cut from Kementári’s pastures filled his lungs, the soft whickers of the horses surrounded him, and richly he smiled as their great heads lifted to greet him. Velvety muzzles pressed into his hands, snuffling noses blew gusts of air down his neck and how he grinned as they made him shiver; enmeshed in such glorious memories he walked unfettered, unchallenged, untarnished.

Yet even as he tarried that golden light faltered, a shadow fell across it, and cold and drear it became, a ghost-light, a witch light, hollow and false and full of shadows. About him the space grew haunted, the horses’ placid snorts turned to ghastly exhalations of decay, of madness, their eyes rolled wild and white, and desperately Maedhros recoiled from them. Fear split through his heart, his chest throbbed with such hideous pressure; shrill, awful whinnies echoed through his head, and piteously he moaned as Angband’s evil swirled and thickened about him. For ever it would seek to possess, to corrupt, to consume; to strip away all that might offer reprieve and fill it with nothing but horror. Into dark, demented dreams it cast him, full of noisome light and the screams of horses, and for a while he knew no more in the waking world. 

 

* * *

 

The days dragged on in torpor and discomfort; those blank, faceless walls did not scar, did not heal, did not change even as his body did. For though Styrrak had claimed no deed of puissance in the mending of Maedhros’ hands, some magic gave speed to his healing; bones sealed and joints were made whole once more, skin was wiped clean of the marks of trauma with which it had become so accustomed. Mobility slowly returned to Maedhros’ fingers, in painful, creaking jerks at first but then far more smoothly, pus and corrupt synovial fluid was sluiced away until only what was hale remained, and once even the most intense of flexion brought little more than a wince to his face, slowly he unwrapped the bandages left fraying about his palms.

Loath though he was to admit it, Styrrak’s skill was impressive: there was but a small smudge of yellowed bruising left on skin and bone once decimated, the flesh across his knuckles grew healthy once more, and though the bend in his middle finger was stiff, with time and patience it worked almost as new. The newfound healing of his hands was the sole thing to break the monotony of that lifeless place; the grimy light was ceaseless, the straw rustled listlessly upon the floor, and no longer did he dare to protest the bland meals of grain and rice that his captors brought him. 

No longer would they speak to him, and for that Maedhros was glad; sullenly he would watch as they left food and water and departed without more than a contemptuous glance at him, yet as the days wore on even that stubbornness began to grow tiresome. Almost instinctively he would count the stones, he would flex his fingers with each number drummed into his head, through evil dreams he would wander, and wake, and perhaps wish for sleep again, anything to break the bleak greyness that drained the strength from _fëa_ and _hröa_ alike.     

That hideous, grating rattle of the bolt in the lock shook his heart into his throat as upon a time the door fell open once more. From where he sat leaning against the wall, wearily he looked up, a cascade of greasy hair hung across his face, and as a figure strode through the door how terribly grateful he was that it concealed his expression from view. For all too quickly the flash of blond hair set him reeling in horror: the lieutenant’s tall, broad frame set fear bubbling in his stomach, and the handsome, disdainful smirk upon the Maia’s lips set something far worse simmering beneath it. But he ripped free that awful, ugly emotion before it began to take root, he threw it to the flames of his hatred and bade it burn, and upon that spark of anger he pounced. 

The chain at his throat tinkled out its menace as he shifted, he clasped the blanket tightly about himself as the Maia closed the cell door, and though fear squirmed and roiled through his veins, he would not let it master him. He was stronger now, he was braver, rage long cast aside in the cataclysm of injury crept back to him, and with vengeance it steeled him. _Caurë hya raxë, lá mandë imma_ ; those were the words that he had sworn, and they had power yet to move him, and as the lieutenant came to a halt before him, hatefully Maedhros glared up at him. 

“What…” His attempt at speech was little more than a croak, his voice rusted and strange, but savagely he cleared his throat, and spat, “What do you want?” 

“A little more manners from you, to begin with,” Mairon snapped, annoyance flashed in his fey, silvery eyes, callous lines twisted the corners of his lips, and desperately Maedhros fought down the instinct to flinch away. “You will address me as ‘my lord’, if you address me at all, do you understand?” 

At that Maedhros bridled, something bold yet glimmered in his blood, the pride of Fëanáro’s mighty house was not yet beaten from him, and darkly he scoffed. A quirk pricked at his eyebrows, anger hummed in his veins; he lifted his face to Morgoth’s dread lieutenant and set his jaw in defiance. 

If he had expected anger in return, some heated comment or barbed insinuation, then sorely he was left disappointed. For Mairon merely sighed, an infuriating look of long-suffering cynicism passed over his face, and at the click of his fingers the collar about Maedhros’ throat began to constrict.

Tighter and tighter the metal closed about him, second by suffocating second it pressed into his skin, and Maedhros scrambled to free himself from its grip as he felt the air slowly throttled from his lungs. Mercilessly the lieutenant watched as he began to choke, his fingers tore pink lines across the skin of his throat as he sought to block the advance of that awful, ensorcelled metal, yet even they were so swiftly bleached by the pressure that crushed into him, as it drove blood from capillaries left screaming with the hurt of it. 

“I asked you a question, slave,” the lieutenant said; icy was his voice as before him Maedhros spluttered, veins and tendons alike standing bold through his neck as even the shallowest of breaths was squeezed from him. “I await your answer. _Do you understand?_ ” 

A dark, ugly flush mottled over Maedhros’ cheeks, frantic little lights pulsed at the edges of his vision as truly he began to suffocate; abhorrence roiled in his blood but so too did instinct, so too did the brutal, visceral need to breathe. His lungs ached and scratched and burned within his chest and at last that pressure became too much to bear, and with some tiny scrap of air left to him he rasped, “Y-yes…” 

“Yes, what?” 

Phosphorescent lights bloomed over his vision; abyssal reds, carcinogen blues; his lungs howled and boiled and screamed within him, and though the words were an abomination upon his tongue shrilly he squeaked, “Yes, my lord…” 

The air whooping back into his chest seemed as though it would drown him. The terrible pressure at his throat receded, his eyes flared wide in relief as he slumped back against the wall, great racking breaths coughing into his lungs, and the lieutenant smirking down at him. 

“Not so difficult, is it?” Mairon said jauntily, yet the humour in his smile did not quite reach his eyes, and under such a terrible gaze Maedhros shrank away. 

The skin at his throat was left sore and bruised as delicately he rubbed at it, and at last he breathed, “No, my lord.” 

“Good,” the Maia replied; the victory in his smile was all too sinister, and though the shreds of rebellion yet swirled in Maedhros’ heart, under such an onslaught they withered. Nervously then he watched as from the pocket of his breeches Mairon withdrew something, and dismayed he was as the lieutenant carefully extracted a thick, iron-tipped syringe from its box. Before where he sat huddled the Maia crouched down, the sudden proximity of him was awful, but worse still was the barrel full of dark liquid that shone in that syringe, and the devious thing that glimmered in the Maia’s eyes as he asked, “Do you know what this is?” 

The tiniest spurt of brackish fluid dribbled from the syringe’s tip as Mairon pressed lightly upon the plunger, and panic thrummed in Maedhros’ heart as he looked upon it. They had injected him with something before, that much he knew, but he couldn’t remember what had happened after, it all tangled together in a blur of faces and laughter and hurting, hurting, hurting; _he couldn’t remember what had happened_ , and that perhaps more than anything else twisted fright through his innards. 

“No, my lord,” he answered at last, his voice low and forlorn, and the mean edge that crept into the Maia’s eyes then sent a pall of dread clouding through his heart. And suddenly Mairon twirled the syringe through his fingers, metal and glass whirled in one startling chrome blur, and as Maedhros recoiled from it, a snort of laughter jumped to the lieutenant’s lips. 

“Do you fear me, Maitimo?” he grinned, all pointed teeth and hollow, vicious eyes. “You have nought to fear from me, if you would but tell me what my lord and I wish to know.” 

A chill, bitter ache spread through Maedhros’ chest, melancholy throbbed in his stomach, and for a moment he closed his eyes as his head bowed. For how the futility of it nearly tore him apart: how he longed to simply be left alone, to be set free, to just give the lieutenant and his carrion lord what they wanted and to be rid of the both of them, their riddles and their smiles and their lies. But how could he, how could he do such a thing, how could he live with himself if such cowardice sought to rule him? He would not betray his kin for such selfish desires, he would not barter their freedom for his own, he _would not_ , not now and not _ever_ , and though it hurt so much to force the words past his lips he could not give in, a terrible purpose gripped him and wearily he said, “No.” 

The sneer that twisted across the lieutenant’s face was terrible to behold; a painful, ruined thing.

“You so delight in punishment,” he said softly, his voice was so horribly intimate. “I should almost seek to deny you, not to indulge such gluttony.”    

Hard then the lieutenant grabbed his left arm and yanked it forwards; the strength of his grip stilled whatever feeble protests Maedhros sought to muster. It left reddened marks branded into his skin. 

“I can’t tell you…” Maedhros whispered, calmly at first but then more frantically as the needle hovered over a vein forced to engorgement beneath the Maia’s grip. “I _can’t_ tell you! I c- _Oh_!” 

Without care for gentleness Mairon stabbed the syringe into Maedhros’ arm, and piteously Maedhros moaned as its contents were forced into him. Swiftly then the lieutenant discarded both needle and captive; a thin rivulet of blood drooled from Maedhros’ arm as he clamped his shaking fingers down upon it, and from where he now stood above him Mairon snapped, “How many are your kin upon these shores? How many are there camped about Mithrim’s lake?” 

At the Maia’s question Maedhros balked, vehemently he shook his head, and desperately he tried to ignore the itch that was spreading beneath his fingers. Like some creeping, insidious cancer it spread across his inner elbow, it felt as though lice were scuttling over his skin, pouring out from the epicentre of that injection, and anxiously he rubbed at it as the lieutenant stared down at him. 

A sudden gasp tore itself from Maedhros’ lips, something tugged at his innards like some unholy foetus turning in the womb, it set him squirming with the discomfort of it, and a cruel smirk twitched at the Maia’s lips. For behind the force of that initial motion every muscle in him contracted, it felt as though knives were prying into his stomach, something was wrenched all wet and slimy and dripping from him and shoved up his throat, and suddenly the truth was snatching at his lips. So desperately he wanted to blurt out the answer, though his conscious mind railed against it the truth hammered upon the backs of his clenched teeth, and it was only with a colossal effort of will that he could restrain it. And perhaps in that moment the lieutenant’s venom was truly laid bare; shallow, panting breaths rocked into Maedhros’ lungs as he swallowed the words back down, yet still his stomach churned, black puissance danced in his veins, and he could but endure as he felt it pollute him. 

“Was it desire for the Silmarils alone that spurred your kin from Valinor’s shores?” the lieutenant asked, and hard Maedhros gulped back the words that lurched up his throat. He whined and shook with the effort of restraining them; yes and no, yes and no, they sawed at the backs of his teeth with their urgency, there were so many reasons: pride, greed, revenge, wonder, _freedom_ \-    

“Or did you march with ulterior motive?”

It felt like a vice was clamping down on his belly, it sought to wring every last bit of truth from him; every muscle in him shuddered with the effort of restraining what craved to burst forth. _Yes_ , he wanted to scream, yes, yes, yes, there were _so many_ reasons, the words seared into the tissues of his throat like bile, but above his suffering the lieutenant was unmoved.

“What strength of arms have you in those quilted tents?” he asked, his eyes cold and calculating. “How many swords left? Warriors, munitions?”

Guttural, aching groans seeped out of Maedhros’ throat as once more the words ripped up inside of him, answers tumbled and fought and clamoured to be free, it felt as though organs might rupture with the din of them, but he could not let them go, he _couldn’t_ ; he curled himself up tight against the wall and dug his fingers into his knees as they waged their war inside of him.

“How many, Maitimo?” The lieutenant’s voice was cutting, merciless, and helplessly Maedhros looked to him. 

His knuckles shone raw and white through his skin as he gripped into himself, and it felt like bloody furrows were carved into his lips as the pressure inside of him became too hard to bear, as it forced something from him. “I d-… I d-don’t know…” 

A slap about his face sent his head reeling, he cringed back against the wall as his innards boiled, as pain shook through his skull.

“Do not lie to me, wretch,” the lieutenant sneered. “ _How many_?” 

Again his stomach twisted, clenched, contorted; and piteously he gasped as its agony shook through him. Sour saliva frothed upon his lips as the words clawed at his throat, but desperately he clamped his teeth shut, blood tasted like rust upon his tongue but he didn’t care, he simply tried to choke back the words that so longed to bolt from him. 

For how long the Maia left him there whimpering he did not know, wet little clicks gurgled out of his throat as he tried to stifle the turmoil that near shook him apart, and it was only with the turning of what seemed like an age that the brush of Mairon’s hand upon his shoulder forced a squeak of fright from him. For once more the lieutenant was crouching beside him, dizzily Maedhros looked up into his eyes, and the remorse that he found there only twisted the nausea that pulsed in his stomach. 

“It matters not to me if you suffer,” the lieutenant murmured; his hands stroked the ragged fall of hair back from Maedhros’ face, and where Maedhros expected hurt there was only kindness, only serenity. The lieutenant took him gently by the cheek and it was so much worse than pain. 

“Why do you torment yourself thusly?” Mairon purred, and so imploring was his voice, so earnest and sorrowful and laced with treachery, and desperately Maedhros tried to block it out. “Why do you hurt yourself, why do you allow yourself to be hurt, for kin who have betrayed you, for kin who treat you as nothing more than a mongrel to be sold at their whim? They do not deserve your suffering, Maitimo; they are not worthy of it. It is so simple, so very simple; just tell me what my lord wishes to know and this might come to its end. This pain, this base suffering, it might all be undone, if by your will you would allow it.” 

The words clung with little barbs to Maedhros’ heart; they were so perilously hard to tear free. For through the tortured mêlée of his thoughts how the lieutenant’s words chimed with reason, something dark stirred in his heart, and it would not be so easily silenced. For though Mairon was cruel, he was capricious, he was all too sadistic, still it was the lieutenant once who had saved him; those thoughts melded and blurred and would not come undone. For it was Mairon who had released him, who had carried him away from that whipping post and all the horror that had come from it, it was Mairon’s hands stroking the hair back from his face as he had shivered, as he had plead, it was Mairon holding him together when all he wanted to do was fall apart, and it was that thought that scratched at him even when all others were banished. 

For maybe Mairon would save him just once more, just _once_ , maybe there was but one morsel of pity left in the heart of Angband’s lieutenant, and how tempting that gamble was. Yet even where he craved to let himself crumble something yanked him back; the lieutenant had lied to him too, he thought, _surely_ he had lied. He could not trust him, he could not betray himself like that, he _couldn’t_ , the lieutenant was a _liar_ , so hard he tried to convince himself of that truth as emotion clotted in his throat. 

“I c-can’t…” he breathed, his voice all harsh and queasy and pleading as his innards turned. “I _can’t_ tell you…” 

“But you can, Maitimo,” The lieutenant’s voice was so lulling, the fingers that stroked over his injured cheek were so forgiving, so apologetic, it was _awful_. “Of course you can.” 

“No!” 

Strangled was the despairing cry that ripped itself from Maedhros’ throat, yet far worse was the agony that seethed in his veins thereafter, and the spasms of muscle that left him shuddering on the floor. For pitiless dismay shone in the lieutenant’s eyes as he stood, as tall and fey he loomed over Maedhros’ crumpled form, and coldly he said, “A waste. You waste yourself for those who cast you aside without a second’s thought, for those who would not lift a finger to come to your aid.” 

Hysterical little whimpers ebbed out of Maedhros’ throat, it felt as if he would split apart with the agony that rent at him; he retched and gagged like some pitiful, dying thing at Mairon’s feet. 

“How very noble,” the lieutenant sneered. “But it matters not. I will have your obedience, Maitimo, whether you would give it freely or no.” 

And in those moments everything came unravelled; caught in aching contortions the past and present collided, whorled, were shaken loose, and suddenly his father was there, the Silmarils blazed in all of their incandescent beauty upon his brow, but cold was his countenance below them. And Maglor was there too, standing over him, a sneer upon his face and a crown in his hand and such monstrous greed in his eyes, but suddenly Fingon was pushing through them, Fingon was there helping him up, a warm hand outstretched to him and desperately Maedhros reached for it. Because maybe Fingon would make them all go away, maybe he would make it better, maybe he would forgive him all the evils that he had done, maybe… 

“Finno,” Maedhros moaned; it was more a bleary, helpless exhalation of breath than actual speech, but the lieutenant’s smile above him could have withered fruit upon the vine.

But even as Mairon drew breath to speak suddenly the ceaseless light of the room began to dim, shadows crawled across the walls and pressure thickened in the air, the will of some colossal, unfathomable malice turned its eye upon the cell, and Maedhros cowered below it. What little colour remained in his cheeks was bleached from them, the air seemed to congeal in his lungs and the brand upon his chest burned, it felt as if an axe were splitting open his skull, pulling forth all sorts of gore and gorging itself on its contents. 

“ _Ah, valiant Findekáno,”_ a voice purred, _his_ voice, dripping in malevolence the Moringotto’s presence emanated from the very walls, and under their onslaught Maedhros could but cradle his head into his hands and pray for it to end. For with those words came the roar of stones crushed in the bellies of the mountains, came the rumbling of the earth spewed up from some subterranean prison; Maedhros clamped his fingers over his ears as if he could block out the words that shook through his bones. “ _You cling to his name as if it will save you. Steeped in the blood of his kin you have betrayed him, abandoned him, destroyed him, in the name of your own arrogance you have cursed him to die. If you think that there is love in him left for you then think more wisely, **kinslayer** …”_ 

The earth heaved and buckled below him, infernal heats pounded out their hatred, the tumult of it was terrible, and ever that word slammed into his skull; _kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer_ ; it corroded through muscle, it steeped in marrow, the Moringotto’s hatred branded him in the truth of what he was and it was far too much to endure. And maybe through the madness of it all he screamed, he clutched onto his breaking skull as if he might suture it back together, but too late, _too late_ , those words tore him apart, and into the chasm of their blackness he was dragged, the lieutenant standing over him was the last thing that he saw before the darkness engulfed him, and for a while he knew no more.

  

* * *

 

Through mangled dreams Maedhros danced; strange, macabre images threaded about him and bound their knots fast. Strings pulled through piercings punctured through breathing, bleeding skin, scabs tore and wept with the tug of them, all glistening and clotted and _vile_. Blisters bubbled across flesh once healthy; whispers, whispers seemed to drown him, it felt as though someone was pressing down upon his chest as flesh boiled before his eyes, it puckered and catered and erupted into foul, drooling sores. _You did this_ , a voice rasped, _you did this to me,_ and desperately Maedhros tried to tear himself from those whispers, from the death-rattle that wheezed through his head. Yet every dream-motion only bound him the tighter, something warm trickled down his body, sticky and red, such pounding, visceral, _guilty,_ red; skin worn bloated and sallow with the weight of it heaved before him, it ensnared him, it _became_ him. It festered in his heart, it dripped from his arteries, and with it lurked corruption, pestilence, disease; all crushed and claustrophobic it consumed him, marrow blackened and blood curdled and bones split apart in their misery, and – 

The deluge of tepid water dumped over Maedhros’ head snatched him from ugly, violent dreams, and into a wakefulness that was little better. For with that water splashed across him instinctively he jerked, yet the cold grip of metal upon him brought that motion to a jarring halt. A bench, chains, shackles; his mind scrambled to piece together his unfamiliar surroundings, his stomach, chest, and face crushed down into dark wood worn smooth with age, and fright trembled in his heart as once more a bucket of lukewarm water was sloshed over his naked back. 

It dripped down his legs, he could feel it trickle away into a metal grate beneath his toes left lightly resting upon the floor, and he grunted in surprise as something was drawn sharply down his spine. The vehemence of his cry did not avail him any: a thick, cloth gag bound about his face muted such protests, and the objecting wriggles of his hips only ground them painfully into the edge of the bench upon which he was chained. For to his dismay he noticed the ring upon his collar attached to an iron fastening bolted into the wood at his throat; it all but immobilised his head save for the awkward turning of his neck. Sturdy metal bands clasped his wrists to the bench-top upon either side of his face, he could feel the bite of bonds securing his ankles to the legs of the bench, and panic thrummed through his heart as the realisation of his vulnerability crashed down upon him. 

Desperately he squirmed, he wrenched at the bonds that held him, the terrible feeling of exposure was all too great; he was so excruciatingly aware of his back, hips, and arse forced to bend over the bench that supported him, and a snarling word of orcish spoken over his spine set every muscle in him clenching in horror. A dark flush of humiliation coloured his cheeks as his captor drew what must have been a scrubbing brush down over his arse; he mewled in protest as its bristles scratched over his slightly spread thighs, and he flinched as another voice to his left suddenly spoke.

“Quiet, _snaga_ ,” it growled, and frantically Maedhros twisted his head; his cheek jammed into the metal fastening that bound his collar but somehow the sight of his tormenters blunted the edge of his nerves. Beside a series of shelves stocked with all manner of folded fabrics and murky, half-glimpsed items, a burly uruk lounged against the wall, its muscular arms crossed over its chest. Reddened eyes leered at him from beneath a dark brow, blunted fangs showed beneath a lip twisted upwards into a permanent snarl by a thick, ropy scar, and as the glisten of drool played about them all too acutely Maedhros was aware of his nudity before it. 

For though he strained to close his legs the bindings upon his ankles held him open, the curve of his arse was too invitingly exposed, and he yelped as his other captor brushed a sluice of greyish water over it.

“Right call on the gag, Kralza,” a voice said above him, and Maedhros trembled with the effort of twisting himself further, with glimpsing the pale-skinned orc that sneered down over him. Laminate folds of teeth erupted from its mouth, its eyes were flinty and cunning, and as it sent a gout of filthy water spattering down to the floor it sneered, “Little rat looks like ‘e’s gonna squeal.” 

The stress of such a contorted position became too much, and miserably Maedhros turned, he rested his head down against the wood and only wished that he might disappear as the orc prodded over his spine. 

“Got a few scars here, naughty thing,” it hissed, a claw caught upon a ridged whip-scar raised across Maedhros’ back, and how he shuddered at the hatefulness of it. 

“ _Nar_ , stop playing, Jakrat,” the uruk rumbled, rolling out its shoulders as it idly stretched. “Just get him clean, then we’re done here, all right?” 

“Oh, _urktith-skrat_ ,” the orc jeered. “I’m just havin’ a bit o’ fun, eh?” 

At that the uruk huffed, and as the orc strode about him to stand upon his left hand side, Maedhros turned his face away. Pink abrasions blushed over his skin as the orc scrubbed over his shoulder and ribs, he wriggled and whimpered as it scraped over sensitive skin, and sent grimy water dripping down to the floor beneath him.

The uruk growled as he suddenly yelped, the orc swiped the brush viciously hard across his hips, and as it clipped over his arse he could not help but writhe in discomfort.  

“Look at ‘im squirm,” the orc chuckled, it slapped him suddenly upon the arse, and desperately Maedhros tried to stifle the whimper that came tumbling up his throat, a whimper of a very different sort. For while the orc’s brush upon him was one abhorrence, its touch was quite another; panic glimmered in Maedhros’ heart as too late he came to stop that noise in its entirety, and he could feel the orc’s glee pressing into his skin as it looked vindictively down upon him. 

“Moaning like a little whore,” the orc spat; horror blazed in Maedhros’ veins as the orc stalked about to face him, as it leaned in close to his bound head and sneered, “You a whore, _snaga_?” 

Frantically, vehemently Maedhros shook his head, anger burned his his eyes as he glared at the orc’s foul face before him, and the most indignant, hateful cry he could muster he spat into the gag that silenced him. 

“No?” the orc crooned; cruelty glittered in its eyes, and even the belligerent uruk snorted in amusement. “Why?” the orc drawled, its horrid breath flushed over Maedhros’ face as it leaned in closer, and into his face leered, “You think you’re better than us?” 

To that Maedhros had no answer, he could only grit his teeth and cling to his hatred as the orc rose before him, as it stalked about him once more. Its hands lingered awfully upon his shoulders, claws trailed with such horrible intent over his ribs, his back; they scrawled sinister little circles over his skin.

“ _Nar_ ,” the orc spat, “I don’t believe ‘im.” At that the uruk raised a hairy eyebrow; the orc’s hand rested mortifyingly upon Maedhros’ arse, and rigid with horror he could only listen as it drawled, “Bet he made the rounds of Tirion’s court, didn’t he? What price wouldn’t they pay to have a prince between their legs?”

A furious cry tore itself from Maedhros’ lungs, anger roared to life in his heart and he bucked within his bonds, he twisted and pulled at the metal that held him until it felt that bones might break, but little good did it do him in the end. All the while the orc rested its hand upon his arse, a leer split over its face as his struggles subsided into panting, bitter fatigue, and from beside him the uruk stirred. 

“Always heard he had a clever tongue,” it muttered, disdainfully it looked to Maedhros left splayed and shaking upon the bench. “Best bury it between some bitch’s thighs.” 

A growl rumbled in Maedhros’ throat, but above him how the orc laughed, and its mirth was nothing but splinters of hurt stabbed into his heart. 

“ _Nar_ , Kralza,” the orc chuckled, “you ain’t heard the rumours? Our little prince would much prefer a nice juicy cock down his throat…” 

A livid flush mottled down Maedhros’ neck, the orc’s words were _horrible_ , and desperately he forced tiring muscles into motion, he squirmed and shook and fought against his bonds with every ounce of strength left in him, but as still it brought him no solace at last he collapsed back against the bench. 

“You’ve upset him,” the uruk growled, a hideous curl of amusement thickening its voice. 

“What’s to upset?” the orc replied; it kneaded the flesh of his arse between its fingers, and utter mortification throttled a terrified squeak of protest from his throat. “’E’s just a pathetic little maggot squirming on my table.” 

How dreadful was the orc’s grip as it tightened upon him, it left reddened marks cloven into his skin. Clawed fingers groped across his arse and so desperately he reviled them, the orc stepped about his trembling legs to pose itself between them, and as it began to nudge his thighs further apart a bleat of utter horror tumbled over his lips. It couldn’t, it couldn’t do that, its touch upon him was _awful_ ; it was sick, it was a crime, it was wrong, _it couldn’t do that to him_ ; panic shrieked through him as the orc spread him wider, as its fingers brushed ever so lightly over his entrance. 

“Ay,” the uruk muttered, “careful now. The lieutenant said -” 

“Lieutenant ain’t here,” the orc retorted, and abject terror quivered in Maedhros’ heart as once more the orc touched him, as it lifted its hands to grope over the curve of his hips. 

“No wonder Fëanáro always held ‘is father’s favour, hmm” the orc remarked; saliva glistened upon its teeth. “Did he buy his throne with his son’s arse, I wonder?” 

Horror stole all the warmth from his skin as the uruk wandered over to him, as it looked acridly down upon him. “Who’d want to fuck a little wretch like that?” it rumbled. “Probably catch something nasty, like Vyrrch got off that Sindar cunt.” 

“Worth the risk, I wonder?” the orc sneered. “’E deserves everything that’s coming to ‘im…” 

The world seemed to stop turning as the orc’s hands slid to the crease of his arse; loathing and horror and fear clamoured in his stomach, he wanted to be sick, and frantically he struggled as suddenly slickened fingers stroked over his entrance. 

_Stop_ , he screeched from behind the gag, he bucked and shook and thrashed in his bonds until it felt as though he might rip muscle from bone, but the hand that pressed remorselessly down upon his lower back was too great an evil to endure. It was one atrocity too many, too many, _too many_ , the orc’s hide-clad legs forced his thighs wider, he grunted and retched and struggled as with such sadistic languor it forced him to be still, he squeezed his eyes shut as its fingers brushed over his entrance once more, and –

The squeal of the door thrown open upon its hinges sent such giddying, ecstatic, relief rushing through him that he almost choked on it. For in that moment everything stood still: orc and uruk froze drenched in all of their guilt, Maedhros’ heart hammered in his chest so hard he thought it might burst, and desperately he gaped up at the tall, imposing figure shadowed within the doorway. But oh with what exquisite cruelty did that brimming relief curdle only to horror as the intruder stepped forward, blond hair spilled across haughty shoulders, and Morgoth’s lieutenant strode into the cell. 

A half-hysterical moan of both hope and dismay tremored in Maedhros’ throat; crowned in all of his fury Mairon glared at the orcs, and the rancour in his eyes brokered no protests of innocence. Ashamed they fell back, those foul hands slipped from Maedhros’ body and he almost sobbed in relief, but for the terror of the lieutenant standing before him. 

_“Get out,”_ Mairon hissed, puissance crackled like a whip beneath his voice, and wordlessly the orcs obeyed, scuttling forth beneath their lieutenant’s gaze and all but fleeing through the doorway.

And for what emotion dredged up from Maedhros’ heart then perhaps there is no name under Arda’s veil; a helpless, terrified, pleading sob broke through him as he looked upon the lieutenant then, everything roared to a terrible crescendo within him, because maybe Mairon would just make it all stop, he would make everything go away like he had before. He had taken him away from that whipping post, for that one tiny moment Mairon had held his hand as he lay ruined and torn in Styrrak’s infirmary, and yes the lieutenant had hurt him, over and over again Mairon had hurt him, but that was _his_ _fault_ , he wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he wasn’t obeying like he was supposed to.

He was trying to be clever, he was trying to be brave, but he _wasn’t_ , he wasn’t brave, the lieutenant’s words wormed into his heart and ate him away; he was weak, he was stupid, _just a stupid, simpering little slave scarcely fit to grace the stones he knelt on_ , the weight of those words crashed down upon him and beneath them he crumbled. But he would obey Mairon now, he would obey him in anything that he wished, if he would but release him, if he would but let him go, let him go back to his cell and his stones and his straw, and let them leave him alone. 

A gulping series of breaths shuddered into his lungs as the lieutenant turned to him, cold and imperious and _terrifying_ he seemed, and a garbled, desperate plea spilled about the gag pulled tight into Maedhros’ lips. 

The vicious clout about his face shocked the breath from his lungs, it strangled hope and yanked up only despair in its wake. For hatefully the lieutenant looked down upon him, puissance shimmered in the air about him, and under such a fell gaze Maedhros withered. 

“ _You filthy little slut_ ,” the lieutenant hissed, every word was drawn into preternatural enunciation, every word was as a whip played across Maedhros’ back. “Is _this_ what Fëanáro’s blood has come to? Such base promiscuity…” The scorn in the Maia’s voice cut down to the bone, but worse was the light that filled his eyes as he gazed down at Maedhros left bound across the bench. 

“Well,” Mairon purred, a false, honeyed tone suddenly crept into his voice, and how Maedhros quailed to hear it. “No matter. If you would flaunt yourself before my subjects like a needy bitch in heat then perhaps we should treat you as such.” 

Venom glittered in the lieutenant’s eyes as he stalked forwards, nothing but hissing, choking sobs bubbled up in Maedhros’ throat as the Maia’s hand ran down his spine, as it gloated over every whip-line scored into the flesh of his back. 

“Ever you have pressed upon my patience, and you weight your prayers upon my lenience. So clever you thought yourself, _atya’s_ clever little boy who would never be daunted, who would never be swayed… Perhaps now my lenience has come to its end.” 

The lieutenant’s hand kneaded over the sore flesh of his arse, and Maedhros could scarcely contain the gagging sob of horror that shook through him as the Maia sauntered about him to stand between his splayed-open legs. Viciously he tore at his bonds, terror lent strength to his contortions but still his body failed him, and how awfully did his throat seem to crumple in on itself as the lieutenant’s legs coaxed his thighs wider, as fingers ran down the spread cleft of his arse. 

“It told you that I would have your obedience,” Mairon purred; the clink of metal and the soft hiss of parting fabric sounded behind him, it ripped a cry of such abject desolation from Maedhros’ throat that it was horrible to hear. “One way or another.” 

_No_ , he screeched, _no no no no_ , _please_ , behind the gag he begged it, he mewled it, he shook and squirmed and strained with every scrap of strength left in him as the lieutenant’s fingers rubbed over his entrance. But callously the lieutenant ignored him, fey puissance crackled in the air and suddenly something cold drizzled down upon him, and trapped there in that hideous moment he could only sob as the lieutenant readied himself. 

The _scream_ that tore from Maedhros’ throat was unearthly; with one remorseless, gut-wrenching shove the Maia sheathed himself to the hilt inside of him, and helplessly Maedhros shuddered as he was split apart. Ruined, breathy sobs panted past the gag as slowly the lieutenant withdrew from him, only to force himself back in; pain throbbed through Maedhros’ stomach as the Maia slowly built his rhythm, and hot, hopeless tears trickled down his cheeks. For how the brand upon his chest _burned,_ it pulsed out its hatred like a searing glede of malice pressed into his skin; fingers jammed into his hips, far, _far_ too hard the lieutenant slammed into him, and pain erupted through Maedhros’ belly. The force of each thrust jerked him bodily across the bench, it set him gagging as pain and tears and such utter humiliation drove the breath from his lungs, and he could but keen in misery as that violation became all too much to bear. 

It had to end, it _had_ to, body and spirit reviled the deed and sought to tear themselves asunder, yet even as his wounded _fëa_ lurched within him it was so cruelly snatched back to stillness. Desperately it squirmed, as a tangible force it crawled beneath his skin, it yearned to be free of the evils of the _hröa_ and just go somewhere to rest, but into flesh it was anchored; Morgoth’s black seal branded into his chest sewed it into him, and so cursed him to endure.   

And with that final indignity tipped down upon him how Maedhros sobbed; hatred, humiliation, guilt, pain, they all smashed up into his lungs and became legion, mercilessly the lieutenant fucked him, and every horrific slide of flesh into hurting, yielding flesh became just another injury carved into him. It was another degradation, another scorn, another thing sent to haunt him, and beneath the weight of it all truly he came apart. Limply he lay as the lieutenant rammed into him; wet, clicking breaths gasped over his lips with every savage thrust up inside of him, and each one of them hurt, each one of them stained him, each one of them tore something from him and cast it out to die. Too long it took for the Maia to groan, too long it took for that awful spurt of seed up inside of him to come, and Maedhros could only shudder in his disgrace when at last it did. 

A wordless moan of relief echoed in his throat as finally the lieutenant withdrew from him, seed drooled in white, viscous rivulets down his thighs, it painted him in nothing but shame, and a half-delirious gasp jumped through him as with a fizz of puissance the iron bonds about him sprang undone. He scarcely had the chance to draw breath before the lieutenant toppled him off the table, shock numbed the strength from his limbs as he crumpled to the floor, and there simply sat as one stricken dumb. Gloatingly the Maia looked down upon him, the cloth gag remained wedged between his teeth and he did not dare reach to remove it, he was not sure he could have even if he had tried. 

It was only as the Maia snatched a folded bolt of fabric from a shelf and flung it at him that his heart seemed to start beating again, a loose, beige kilt came unfurled in his hands, and desperately he clutched it to himself. Under the lieutenant’s contemptuous gaze he fumbled to wrap it about himself; his fingers would not stop shaking, the material felt wrong across his skin, everything felt grey and numb and pointless, it would be so much easier to just disappear, to just vanish into the misery that yawned open in his stomach and let it consume him. He could only gulp in faint dismay as Mairon strode over to him then, and batting his head aside fastened a short leash to his collar.

“Get up,” the lieutenant snapped; the cruelty in his gaze was absolute, and a savage jerk upon the leash yanked Maedhros reluctantly to his feet. For a moment he simply swayed, though his limbs were unbound he could not bring himself to move; seed dripped down his thighs and though anger swirled still somewhere in him it felt muted, warped, _wrong_ , it was so far away and in that distance there was nothing but grief. 

A yank upon the leash set him stumbling, loneliness bled through his heart as the lieutenant dragged him from that cell, and to what new fate he would be brought he did not know, and in that moment, he could not quite bring himself to care.      

 

 

* * *

_So it's been like 10,000 years since this fic last updated and sorry about that, but I hope it was worth the wait in all of its horribleness! Thank you so so much to everyone who's been so kind and patient in waiting for an update, and to any newcomers, welcome to whatever the hell this is. Or let me rephrase, welcome to the reason why I am going to Hell (as if my previous little jaunt with Tyelpë hasn't gotten me a premium seat already...)_   
_Questions, comments, and concerns are always appreciated, either here or on tumblr, and I'll do my level best to get back to you as soon as possible. markedasinfernal.tumblr.com is the lair, if you're interested. Either way, hope you enjoyed the update long overdue, and hopefully the next chapter will be up with far more speed than this one was. Best, theeventualwinner x_

 


	7. What Vile Things

Why he followed Morgoth’s dread lieutenant where he led, Maedhros did not know. He only knew that he stumbled on in the Maia’s wake, that with each faltering step he trailed his abuser, and although his wrists were now unbound and his ankles unfettered, he could not find the strength in his heart to resist. Reddened abrasions ringed his wrists where he had fought against his previous bonds, his hips and pelvis ached from the atrocity done unto him, beneath the rough-spun kilt that he wore fluid trickled down his thighs and surely he must be bleeding, he thought, he knew, he dreamed; like a sleepwalker lulled to deathly trance he walked on into numbness. 

The cloth gag pressed between his lips felt all too cutting, sharp and constricting where he longed to drift, to float, to smooth out horror into calmness and to simply feel real once more. But with each graceless step he felt that he might drown in the grief that engulfed him, a wound was torn in both body and spirit that would only drool out its infection, its loathing, its _shame_ ; what tiny part of him screeched out its hatred was buried by the despair that settled in his stomach, and its weight was crippling. 

Too sudden, too awful were the orcs’ scornful hands upon him, their words were like knives sent to flay him alive, and then the lieutenant had come, he had come in all of his hope and his glory and his lies, lies, _lies_. Nausea twisted in Maedhros' stomach; he could still feel the Maia's grip upon him, inside of him, with the lieutenant's every horrible, violating thrust it felt like something of himself was ripped away, was torn from him and cast out to die amid the merciless stones, and for its loss he was changed. 

It was better to endure, he told himself, in what part of his mind still clung to clarity he crooned it to himself like a lullaby. How many times had he said it, to the faceless stones of his cell, to muscles left trembling with fatigue, to broken bones swollen with pus and bloodied bruising; it was better to endure, he _had_ to endure. For his brothers, his father, for his people, for _himself_ , he had to endure, but this was an evil beyond endurance, and under it he eroded away.

He scarcely dared to peep out at his surroundings as the Maia hauled him through a raised, rusted trellis-way; thick, clumped locks of still damp hair hung about his face and gladly he let them conceal him, to shield him from the horrors that hemmed him in. For as he shuffled along that pathway how desperately he just wanted to go home; like a lost, frightened child in that moment he longed for what was familiar, for what was safe. And how cowardly, how weak, how _pathetic_ it was but so fervently he wished that the lieutenant would just take him back to his cell, that he was done with him, that he could run away and hide and that he might just be left to his loneliness once more, to his hay and his stones and his misery. 

Yet through unfamiliar corridors he was led, and when at last a narrow stairwell jutted from the mould-stained passageway, at the sight of it Maedhros balked. He wasn't going back to his cell, there were no stairs that way, he knew, he _thought_ that he knew, so the Maia was taking him somewhere else, somewhere _worse_. Fatigue and stress and dawning terror forced a squeak of protest from his throat, yet the yank upon the leash at his neck dragged him onwards where he faltered. 

"Move," the Maia snapped, and Maedhros quailed at his word. All at once hands grasped him anew, they shook him, touched him, marred him; shame spilled through his heart at those wounds carved afresh and through the shock of it he simply trudged onwards. 

It was better to endure, it was better to endure, the words thudded emptily through his head as up a tightly spiralling staircase they wound; the leash snapped taut in the Maia's hand and like some helpless little dog he followed in his abuser's shadow. His hips ached with the effort of such sudden exertion, raw flesh wept their injuries in little crimson trails down his thighs, yet dim such hurts seemed, distant and wan, they were diluted out in the pallid morass of hopelessness that settled upon his heart.    

He was not bound, each step reinforced the humiliation of it. He was not bound; his legs trembled with the effort of holding himself as tirelessly the Maia marched him onwards, his wrists were not restrained where he trailed one shaking hand along the wall for balance. He was unbound, unchained, he was free, he should fight. 

 _Fight_ , some wild thing within him trilled, it was beaten and bloodied, yes, but not wholly broken. _Fight_ , it compelled him, begged him, lured him, and so desperately he wished to heed its call. With one hard blow to the backs of the Maia's knees his captor might be felled, and he could move, he could grasp him, hurt him. He would wrap his fingers about the Maia's vile throat and how hard he would squeeze; he would watch as the light dimmed in those cunning eyes. Every twitch, every spasm and flail and shudder of asphyxiating muscle he would ride, he would _consume_ , and how glorious it would feel, how righteous; he would throttle the life from the Maia's bones and he would smile as he did it.

 _Fight_ , something in him screamed, begged, clamoured, and yet he could not. For what good would it accomplish? In what valour would it succeed him, in what form of escape would it truly aid him, what mortal deed could undo what had already been done? The shame of his inactions weighed like molten lead within his veins and stilled him to torpor. It was better just to follow, to endure, to obey, to put aside pretences of bravery; he was weak, he was stupid, over and over they had told him so, he was just a simpering little slave made to suffer at their feet, and as the poison of those words seeped into his heart there was scarce little left to provide the antidote. 

Still upwards they wound, and with the chill breeze that now gusted down the staircase so too did the stones change; they bled from dreary slates to thickly-veined granites, and at the sudden jabber of voices from above Maedhros all but sank into them. Clumsily he drew himself into the Maia's shadow as a small band of orcs came clattering down the stairs; there was hardly room for two to pass abreast in safety, and he desperately tried to stifle the instinctive noise of horror that welled up in his throat as brute orcish armour brushed over his shoulder and arm as the company passed. 

" _Shar glizn, Mairon-khur_ ," the final orc rumbled, a commander or overseer from the ugly glyph that Maedhros glimpsed branded into its pauldrons, and as it tramped down after its company a sharp tug upon the leash set Maedhros stumbling onwards once more. 

For minutes more he trailed the Maia up those winding stairs, his thighs cramped and ached with such punishing exertion, and he was almost grateful for the wide, torch-lit landing that eventually opened up before him. Yet he had scarcely drawn fresh breath into his lungs before the lieutenant hurried him onwards, and into a broad, vaulted corridor they emerged. The smooth grey marble underfoot felt unnatural after so long curled upon coarse slate, and wide-eyed Maedhros stared at the hallway as he was dragged through it. Pillars curved up like colossal ribs to meet far above his head, and everywhere the light was red, red and moist and rotted, like meat left to spoil on the bone. Almost imperceptibly the air about him grew warm, and as he was drawn down the corridor he stared at the walls of that unearthly place. 

Beneath a strange translucent faience writhed veins of molten rock, like serpents of liquid fire glimpsed through smoke-blasted glass, cataclysmic in their thought and terrible in their heat. The warmth of it was unsettling, the stifling air caught thickly in his throat, yet swiftly enough the Maia led him away, and as they entered down another wide marble-clad thoroughfare suddenly more of Angband's denizens surrounded him, and from them he shrank away. Hulking, snarling orcs shoved heedlessly past him as he trailed the lieutenant; the Maia held him uncomfortably close as a crush of goblins poured past them, chittering and yowling in their gibberish tongues. Close then Maedhros kept to the Maia's heels as further still they walked, uruks and ghouls and fouler things stalked about him, and he could not bear to face them. For with each passing glance upon him it seemed only that his shame was reinforced; saliva glistened humiliatingly upon his lips as the gag pulled tight about his face, he was so terribly conscious of the wetness dripping down his thighs, and he dared not pause to wipe it free.   

Malevolence throbbed like tightening bolts at his temples; at his side a monstrous auroch bellowed its impatience and grievously he shied away from it. Its great horns were twisted and splintered, magnificent still in their ivory spread but made corrupt; dark, stupid eyes rolled beneath a heavy brow, and again the auroch roared as a handler tugged it along by a thick ring pierced through its nose. Yet even as the beast was led down an adjoining passageway something stranger still strolled past it; a gigantic black feline slunk its way from the shadows, and as its startling green eyes settled upon both he and the lieutenant, its pink tongue lapped at the air in glee. 

"Ah, Mairon!" The cat purred, it stalked its way towards them and drew to an elegant halt before the lieutenant. To the height of the creature's shoulder Maedhros stood, the sheer size of it awed him; its glossy coat shone in the torchlight and fearfully Maedhros looked upon it as it yawned, exposing huge, dagger-like teeth in a reddened maw. 

"Mairon," the creature purred again, its voice low and melodious and filled with feline condescension. "What errand sees you walk abroad of your tiresome forges, hmm?" 

The vibrato in the cat's purr reverberated with uncomfortable force in Maedhros' chest, it made him want to cough, but desperately he held himself still, his head bowed and his hands clutched nervously before his stomach. 

"I am set upon my lord's charge, Tevildo, as should you be." The lieutenant spoke fondly to the cat, yet there was a hint of wryness in his voice that made Maedhros' stomach turn. "Your kitchens are prepared for the feast, I assume, lest you be so bold to haunt these corridors?" 

"The stew simmers as we speak, lieutenant," the cat replied, "and fresh meats are sent to the slaughter. My little mice scurry to and fro, to and fro, to the baker's ovens, the mushroom fields, the spice mills, the barrel masters. Fret not, there will be provision enough to slake even mine modest appetites." 

"Modest?" the Maia grinned. The fleeting glimpse of his smile sent a shiver down Maedhros' spine, and suddenly, horrifyingly, he noticed the gaze of the great cat resting upon him. 

"And what of your own _indulgences_ , lieutenant?" Its whiskers twitched with feral glee as it drawled, "I had not thought you fond of ginger..."    

Seed dripped down Maedhros' thighs; it drenched him in nothing but shame, and the lieutenant's scoff of laughter made it feel so much worse. 

"Oft I have heard that curiosity is ill-agreed with your kind, mighty prince," the Maia retorted. "One may ponder wisely where best to pry their whiskers." 

A terrible grin contorted the cat's face then; its lips drew back into a wide, drooling smile, and elegantly it arose to stalk a wide circle about the lieutenant and his captive. Its great head passed not inches from Maedhros' naked back, its whiskers skimmed over his shoulders, and desperately he tried not to flinch at their touch. 

"Mmm," the cat purred, "there is rage in this one, Mairon, such rage, what a beautiful thing. Yet awash in grief... how _delicious_." Onwards the cat prowled, and Maedhros shied away as it drew to a halt at the lieutenant's side. "You must send him to me, once you are done. I always enjoy such flavourful little mice in my kitchen. Scurry, scurry... they give the hunt so much more _succour_." 

Worry knotted in Maedhros' stomach, and how he simply wished that he could disappear as the Maia snorted softly in amusement. "We shall see, my friend," Mairon said, "but for now my lord's will claims him, and it is best that I see him delivered." 

At that the great cat nodded, and with a final twitch of its whiskers padded off down the corridor, and into the fortress' depths. 

The sharp clutch of metal pressed into Maedhros' throat set him stumbling forwards as the Maia strode on, and helplessly he followed in the lieutenant's wake. Anxiousness clotted in his stomach, pressure throbbed its malevolence through his skull, and how sick it made him feel; the way they spoke of him was horrible, as if he wasn't even there, as if he were just a piece of meat to be dissected and discarded at their leisure. The callousness of it wormed like maggots under his skin and there only festered. 

Yet how insipid such hurts seemed when at last a set of immense, ornate doors loomed up from a decadent hallway; pressure drummed in his skull and set the brand upon his chest twinging as he looked upon them, and as those great doors were swung open before the lieutenant, terror clenched in Maedhros' heart. 

"No," he gurgled; it was less a word than a frantic, bubbling noise trapped behind his gag, no, no, he knew where those doors led and he couldn't go there, he _couldn't_ , that hideous iron throne and he who commanded it drilled their hatred into him and before their mere shadow he quailed. He could not face the Moringotto, not now, _not now_ , he could not bear the contempt in those golden eyes, and before that maleficent hall he halted as if stricken dumb.  

Nothing but a squeak of horror bleated from his throat as the lieutenant shoved him forwards, as cruel fingers dug with bruising force into his bicep and dragged him beyond the doors. 

He did not dare to look upon the throne that reared up at the end of the colossal chamber; he could not bear to witness the fiend that languished upon it, surrounded by a clot of armed uruks and one flame-clad Valarauka towering over them all. The lieutenant's fingers gripped like a vice about his arm and drew him relentlessly forward, and how desperately he wished that he could just go back to his cell; terror scoured the reason from his bones, and a tiny sob of despair hitched in his throat as at last the steps of the dais fell before him. The sheer immensity of the hall glowered down upon him, the very shadows that swirled about the lacquered pillars were scornful, and before the Moringotto's throne the lieutenant threw him to his knees. 

The leash trailed humiliatingly to the Maia's hand as there he waited while Morgoth spoke still with his courtiers; it was all that he could do to try to still the trembles of his fingers, to steady his breath and ignore the ache in his stomach and just kneel there like a good little slave until his master deigned to acknowledge him. Of what evils the Moringotto and his subjects spoke Maedhros did not ever wish to know, yet a part of him wished that they might speak on into eternity, that they might never turn to him in malice. But it would not be, it could not be; at last the soldiery were dismissed and as they tramped past him with iron-shod boots and warhammers gleaming, a cold slick of dismay turned in Maedhros' stomach. 

 _"Come,"_ the Moringotto drawled, and pain thrummed through the brand upon Maedhros' chest as he spoke. _"The morn draws late, and Fëanáro's son abases himself before my throne."_

A tiny, futile frown of contempt crossed Maedhros' brows, some small rebellious thing inside of him for a moment spluttered into life, but it withered under the lord's gaze. 

At Morgoth's gesture the lieutenant stepped forward, the knot at Maedhros' gag was deftly unpicked, and roughly the gag was pulled from his lips. A humiliating strand of saliva dangled from the dampened cloth, and as the Maia cast it disdainfully aside Maedhros cringed to see it fall. 

 _"Craven little thing,"_ the Moringotto purred, he shifted upon his throne and desperately Maedhros tried not to shudder as the blinding annuli of the Silmarils washed over him. His father's mighty jewels shone forth from Morgoth's crown and the light of them itched like lice upon his skin. _"Craven, yet stubborn, like a mule in need of the rod."_  

A long moment passed, and sullenly Maedhros looked to the base of the throne.

 _"Dare you not face me, Maitimo?"_  

It took so much effort to force himself to raise his head, weariness bled through his bones as he tried, he tried, but he could not do it; shame clawed at his heart and the light crawled across his skin and that horror proved too much in the end. Before the dark lord upon his throne his head bowed, and he could no longer find the will to resist it. 

A gluttonous smile curled the Moringotto's lips, and languidly he spoke, _"Or perhaps it is not myself whom you loathe so much. You cannot even look upon the jewels of your heart's desire, upon what your futile oath condemns you to pursue. They illumine you in nothing but wretchedness."_

Stickiness clung to Maedhros' thighs, the brand upon his chest pulsed out its hate, and he tried only not to whimper as the Moringotto sneered, _"Tell me, slave, did you enjoy my lieutenant's attentions?"_  

There was no word in Elven tongues for the horror that twisted in Maedhros' heart; words formed and quailed and died in his throat as despair broke through him, and sutured him to his silence. 

 _"Think you that coyness might earn you more?"_ Desperately Maedhros clenched his jaw shut, an instinctive quiver of tired muscles forced him to shake his head, but he could only kneel there and suffer as the Moringotto continued, _"Such perversions you have, Maitimo, such decadent fantasies..."_

"You moaned prettily enough for me, whore," the lieutenant sneered, and helplessly Maedhros trembled under their onslaught. 

 _"Such sinful greed, it runs thicker than blood,"_ Morgoth purred. _"Cradled there in your cousin's bed who knows what vile things have crossed your lips."_

A livid flush mottled over Maedhros' cheeks; _no_ , he wanted to cry, no, no, no, that wasn't true, it _wasn't_ , but the lie clawed into his throat; fury fizzed up in his veins and to blind action it spurred him, and clumsily, wildly he lunged for the lieutenant. Yet how the crack of the Maia's boot into his ribs brought him up painfully short, it shocked the breath from his lungs and left him gasping. As a wheezing, whimpering wreck he huddled at the Moringotto's feet; tears of pain and rage blurred over his eyes, and over him Morgoth smiled. 

 _"Pathetic,"_ the lord sneered. _"Your defiance is weak, Noldo, and my patience wears thin."_

A savage jerk upon the leash dragged him unwillingly to his knees, pain crackled over his ribs and pressure throbbed through his skull as the Moringotto began, _"You shall speak what we wish to know. In this place, upon your knees where most befits your verminous kind you shall tell us your truths afore I wrest them from your impudent lips. You -"_

Suddenly a horn blast smashed through the static air of the hall. From high above in the fortress a deep-throated bugle loosed its cry, and worry coiled in Maedhros' innards to think what it might mean. As one both lord and lieutenant paused, the reverberations of that dreadful sound bounced and echoed amid the vaults of the hall in dissonant symphony, and when at last they passed away the Moringotto spoke, _"What news, Mairon?"_  

"I am unsure, my lord," the lieutenant replied, a frown crossing his brows. "Mayhap that Nakthur's party has returned before their time, or that Ancalagon rouses again from his slumber. I cannot say with certainty." 

"Noble lords!" an orcish voice suddenly called; the tramp of marching boots echoed from the great doors of the hall, yet Maedhros dared not turn to glimpse the newcomer. He simply revelled in the few moments of respite that he might snatch as the lords' attention was elsewhere occupied. 

"I beg forgiveness for the intrusion, my lords," the orc continued, "but I come with urgency. Nakthur's company crests the horizon, and with him is The Bone Sage's legion. Their banners fly red, and our scouts report that their numbers are much diminished. A purple cloth they show too, lords, they beg your attention at the gates, though the reason I know not." 

For a moment the lords were silent, and as the lieutenant turned to Morgoth, a few solemn words passed between them in a language that Maedhros could not discern. 

 _"Thank you, Gnurrka,"_ Morgoth at last spoke, and beside him his lieutenant stood to attention. _"Presently we shall attend, for the importance of this matter may be beyond your ken."_

"My lords," the orc bowed, before marching swiftly from the hall.  

 _"Tether the slave, Mairon,"_ the Moringotto bade, arising from his throne, and Maedhros flinched away from him as he stood. _"For now he may wait, and I wish your presence also in this matter."_  

"At once, my lord," the lieutenant replied, and as the Moringotto descended the dais Maedhros was jerked aside. 

He could scarcely find the will to struggle as the Maia pulled him to the side of the Moringotto's throne, he could only flinch and tug in feeble resistance as the Maia knotted the trailing end of his leash through an iron loop riven into the metalwork of the throne, and with a swell of puissance secured it at both throne and throat alike. Despairingly he slumped against the jagged iron as the Maia left him, leashed to the throne like a whipped dog awaiting its master's return; his hips ached with the abuse done unto him, and delicately he held his ribs already purpling with bruises. 

Hatefully he watched the Maia's retreating back, until he was left alone in that cavernous hall, alone save for the groans of the marble and the crackle of torches burning low in their brackets. Something skittered distantly against the stones, but as a hushed silence descended then he thought of it no more.   

It was pride that spurred him at least to try, though weariness dragged at him still he scratched and tugged and worked at the knots that held him, to no avail, and at last dejected he curled himself up against his abuser's throne, and he wished to know no more of hateful things.   

 

* * *

 

For how long he waited in that baleful hall he did not know; there was no passing of time in that torch-lit gloaming save the faint clench of hunger in his belly, and the seeping ache of hurts in both _hröa_ and _fëa._ Deliriously he would dream, and waken, and perhaps for a while drift into grim reverie: ghastly hands gripped about his hips, they pressed him down; sick, unyielding, _violating_ pressure throbbed through his guts, and sharply he would jolt to wakefulness once more, he tried to outrun those terrible feelings and all of the shame that lurked behind them.

It was his fault, the treacherous thoughts crooned, and as the hours passed how persuasive their words became. It was his fault, the lieutenant had said so, he had flaunted himself, he had disobeyed, and they had hurt him for it. He should have just done as they had said, he should have just obeyed like Styrrak had told him to, _he should have just obeyed_. Because maybe then it wouldn't have happened, maybe it would have been different, maybe if he was good then the lieutenant would forgive him, and maybe then - 

The grind of the doors swinging open upon their hinges once more sent such thoughts scattering, and dread cramping through Maedhros' innards. They had come back, the panicky thoughts squalled, they had come back to hurt him, again, again, again they were going to hurt him, and hurriedly he drew himself close. He curled his knees up to his chest and huddled there against the throne, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed that the intruders be gone. 

Yet step by horrible step their footfalls drew nearer, and as they ascended the dais it was the lieutenant's smooth voice that bade, "On your knees, Maitimo." 

At the Maia's command Maedhros' throat tightened, some fragile thing within him still bleated out its defiance, yet though the action of it galled him, wearily he squashed it down. It was just easier to comply, it was easier not to fight; _obey, and they will not hurt you_ , that was what Styrrak had said and maybe it would be true, no matter how much it felt like a betrayal. But it wasn't a betrayal, it _wasn't_ , so desperately he tried to convince himself of that fact as he clambered blindly to his knees. 

Dully he stared at the marble as two figures halted before him, yet after a moment he looked nervously upwards as the unfamiliar hem of a skirt swept suddenly before his eyes. 

Over him the lieutenant stood, clad in a handsome, formal tunic, and upon his arm a lady rested her hand, and wide-eyed Maedhros gazed at her. Hair dark as molten pitch tumbled to her waist, it curled over the shoulders of her deeply-cut sapphire dress and framed eyes like starless voids of night, utterly devoid of light and colour. Yet even as she stood elegantly by the lieutenant's side Maedhros sensed that she was no ethereal fey; tall and proud she held herself, the silver-trimmed hem of her dress grazed sturdy leather boots beneath it, and her pointed, white teeth flashed in the gloom of the hall as she remarked, "So this is he, the scion of the House of Fëanáro." 

Acerbic yet light was her tone, and imperiously she blinked down upon Maedhros as the lieutenant sighed, "Indeed, this is he." Suddenly though his voice sharpened, and he snapped, "Greet the lady Thuringwethil properly, Maitimo." 

"Y-yes, my lord," Maedhros croaked, the words tumbled from his lips before he truly intended them to, and a flush of humiliation coloured the tips of his ears as she extended her hand to him. Shakily then he bent his head as far as the leash would allow, the submission of it was _awful_ , and pressed a tight, quick kiss to her knuckles. 

A breath of laughter curled her lips as she withdrew her hand, and playfully she clapped the lieutenant upon the arm. "Oh, Mairon," she smiled, "how miserable he looks, the poor thing!" 

A noise of derision turned the Maia's smirk in turn, and acridly he said, "Maitimo here so delights in his debasements. It would be a shame to deprive him in such a wish." 

"Such jealous cruelty..." she tutted. "I would think it beneath you, _my lord_." 

"Not so, when commanded of me, dear lady," the lieutenant replied; smooth and gallant was his voice, and Maedhros cringed away from his gaze as he continued, "This is the will of our lord, and not of my own. Though, the wretch does precious little to lighten his suffering..." 

Shame gnawed at Maedhros' heart, and as his head bowed the lady looked down upon him. 

"He must be so frightened." 

The pity in her tone was nauseating. It was only another insult, and desperately Maedhros clung to his silence, for although he longed to gainsay her, he knew not what words could avail him. 

With such excruciating pity in her eyes for a while longer the lady regarded him, until at last the lieutenant murmured, "Come, let us leave the little beast. He does not provide much in the way of conversation, though freedom of tongue might serve him better fortune." 

The callous peals of the lady's laughter rang about the hall long after she and the lieutenant had departed, and vehemently Maedhros despised them. Yet even through those mocking shreds of sound something else moved, something for a moment pattered and scraped amid the clotted shadows in the halls' vastness, and desperately Maedhros strained to hear it. Something hissed in the darkness, he was sure of it, nervousness gripped him as he stared out into the enshrouding blackness, but as the minutes passed without further sound nor incident, that lurking worry faded, and tedium grasped him once more. 

Dully he stared to the shadows amid the carven pillars, and into blankness for a few hours he swum, and gratefully he accepted their numbness. Yet even through the bone-deep exhaustion that drenched him, now and again a sibilant voice seemed to whisper in his ears, abruptly, like the hiss of scales scraped across marble before fading into silence once more. It came in the wake of a chattering band of orcs lolling past the throne room doors; worry knotted in Maedhros' stomach as hours later it came again, closer now. From somewhere unseen amid the gloom some serpentine, demented language circled about him, and uneasily he pressed himself back into the throne's side. 

Minutes, hours, they passed in fretful silence, until something clattered amid the shadows, harsh and skittering, and with it Maedhros flinched. Unmistakeably clear came that sound again, hissing, scraping, lurking, something hungry circled the hall and desperately Maedhros looked about. Yet he could not glimpse what it was that stalked him; his fingers clenched into gaunt, bloodless claws about his knees as he gripped himself tightly, as above him, about him, those skittering little noises wound. They waxed and ebbed, something soft-sounding dragged across the marble, and hard he gulped down the whimper of terror that clicked in his chest as at last words drifted from the darkness. 

 _< Huuuuuungry> _a voice rasped, in an ancient mode of Valarin of which Maedhros could understand little. But enough, enough, more than enough he could hear in that voice, a voice torn from no mortal throat; the menacing tap of chitin upon stone echoed overhead, and desperately Maedhros craned his head to glimpse it. But darkness swathed the hall and held its secrets close, and nothing could Maedhros see, nothing but clotted shadows and hazy twilight; his heartbeat pounded in his chest and painfully still he held himself.   

 _< Huuuuuungry>_ the thing breathed; a scatter of puissance wafted over Maedhros where he sat shrunken into the throne, and from it he recoiled. For madness rolled in that thing's exhalation, it reeked of mud and rot and decay, turgid with the slimes of the earth; soft, squelching flesh dragged across the marble from somewhere behind the throne, and terror clove through Maedhros' chest.  

 _< Ssssssstarving> _a voice hissed, _another_ voice, it crooned from a desiccated throat somewhere to Maedhros' side. _< The lord leavesssss usssss meat...>_

 _< Huuuungry, yes> _the first voice came; a billow of foetid air brushed over Maedhros' shoulders and desperately he jerked away from it. The iron collar jammed into this throat as the leash snapped taut, unbreakable tethers bound him to the throne and panic flooded through him as he realised that he could not run from whatever new demons sought him. 

"G-go away!" he cried, terror tore the words from his throat, and a ghastly silence hung for a moment in the air. 

 _< It mewlsssssss>_ one of the voices murmured. 

 _< Huuuuuungry> _the other drooled; something huge uncurled within the shadows, the sinuous motion of it was just visible amid the shade, and fear trembled in Maedhros' heart as he glimpsed but a fragment of the creature's impossible bulk. _< Fresh, alone, to feed, yes, soft, soft flesh, yes...> _ 

 _< Ssssssoft, and warm>_ A blast of hot, wet air curled over Maedhros' side, and he could but cower as one stricken dumb, like some tiny prey caught in a predator's web. _< Flesssssshhhh>_

 _< Feed, feed>_

_< Yessssssssss>_

Impacts trembled through the metal of the throne at his back, clods of blackened earth tumbled down over Maedhros' upturned shoulders; terror hammered in his chest so hard he thought that his ribcage might split with the violence of it as he heard, he smelt, he _felt_ a great, slickened mouth open behind him. Yet where he expected the stabbing crush of teeth, the burst of pain, the cold unravelling of flesh and entrails spilled there was nothing, nothing save the blinding flash of light that suddenly ripped through the hall, and the stern, horrible, _familiar_ voice that cried, "Away!" 

Instantly the presence above him withdrew, the throne's metal juddered with the force of its passing as it leapt back into the shadows above, and as that searing flash of light faded such relief tore through Maedhros' heart that he nearly choked on it. Yet with that relief so too sprang new horror; the light-blurred glimpse of the tall, blond figure striding through the hall set nausea tumbling through him, and between those two feelings he was riven apart.  

"Away," the lieutenant cried once more; his voice glittered with fey puissance and as he drew swiftly nearer Maedhros saw that a silver whip was coiled in his hand, licked with cold, colourless flames. "He is not for you! Away!" 

 _< You deny ussssssss, Maia>_ a voice spat. Clicks and hisses and chittering chitin scraped across the walls. _< We know hunger like no pain>_ 

"He is not yours to claim!" the lieutenant said, and where he advanced it seemed that the shadows fled, and the things that crawled in their depths resented his intrusion. "The lord of this keep would not take kindly to your greed." 

 _< The Black One has no dominion over usssssss>_ a voice snarled, yet as the lieutenant strode up the steps of the dais to stand firmly over Maedhros' shrunken form, it seemed that the voice was diminished in its terror. 

"By my lord's grace you dwell within these stones," the Maia called, "and by your impudence he would see you expelled, houseless and accursed, to the pitiless realms without! Be gone, should you wish to keep favour, and fill your bellies elsewhere!" 

A low, visceral growl filled the hall then, it thrummed with dark malevolence, yet where Maedhros cowered from it the Maia stood undaunted, the silver whip burning in his hand. 

 _< We know what you cry to the darknesssssss>_ a voice hissed, and the other continued _< when he comes, in shadows, yes, yes, when he hurts you, we know what you cry, we know the taste of your screams>_ 

"You know nothing of me." Brighter still the flaming whip shone, so bright that Maedhros shielded his eyes from its radiance as the lieutenant commanded, "Be gone!" 

A horrible, gurgling laugh echoed from above, and again came a voice, though fainter now, and amid the scrape of bloated, dragging flesh.

 _< We know when you ssssssleep, little Maia>_ it snarled. _< We remember how to bite>_ 

The lieutenant's eyes narrowed in displeasure, ghostly flames licked over the palm of his hand, but at last the creatures retreated, and with a flick of his wrist those fires were extinguished, and with them too the whip vanished. Swiftly then the Maia turned to Maedhros left curled below him, and sharply said, "You will come with me, now." 

Dread bloomed afresh in Maedhros' stomach, and as the Maia reached over him to undo the tethered leash Maedhros flinched away from his hand. 

"N-no," he gulped, it was more an instinctive, frightened whine of refusal than an actual word, and feebly he tried to pull himself away from the lieutenant. Yet a jerk of the leash brought him to a cruel halt; the metal slammed into the back of his neck and left him gasping in discomfort. 

"Fight me," the lieutenant snarled, "and I will leave you bound until the flesh rots from your bones." 

The look in the Maia's eye was unearthly, something brittle, something dangerous hovered in his voice and Maedhros shuddered to know what violence lay beneath it. _It was better to obey_ , again the words came to him, and reluctantly then he nodded, and awkwardly rose to his feet before the Maia. Though for all his reticence he clung closely to the lieutenant's heels as he was led down the dais and away, and behind him hungry shadows swirled. All too close they seemed, dark and full of horror, they leached the strength from his spirit and if only to break the brooding, watchful silence that fell, at last he spoke, "What were they, my lord?"   

Low and timid was his voice, but coldly the Maia ignored him; the spill of light from the doors' wide aperture fanned out before him, and he murmured, "Will... will they hurt you, my lord?"

Quite why that sudden question had crawled over his lips he could not say, he did not dare give name to the emotion that swelled behind it; hate and longing and fear and something far, far worse tangled together and came inseparable, yet sorely wasted were such fragile things. 

"Be silent," the Maia snapped, and Maedhros dared not press any further. He simply followed where he was led, through those terrible doors and off to some other fate. But as they walked the corridors outside one tiny hope lit in his heart; maybe now the lieutenant would take him back, take him away, away to his stones and his hay and his safe little cell. They could not hunt him there, no hungry shadows lurked in that ceaseless light, and maybe just for a moment he could rest, he could curl himself up with his hurts and try to forget. That small hope pulsed dimly within him as the Maia led him through a tangle of corridors that for a while he thought familiar, but further still they walked, down corridors decked with hanging curtains and woven murals, past statues of leaping wolves and under grand chandeliers dripping obsidian tears to the floor below, and piece by unfamiliar piece that hope was stolen away.   

Past rowdy, cavorting orcs he was dragged, and jeeringly they called to him, spat at him, and helplessly he pressed himself to the Maia's heels and endured their scorn. Exhaustion that no defiant adrenaline could dissipate dragged like leaden weight within his bones, and in the Maia's wake he began to stumble; pain jolted through his ribs and his hips as awkwardly he caught himself, and wearily he staggered on. And if the lieutenant's haughty bearing hardened to stoic grimness as they marched then Maedhros did not glean it, if rather more viciously than was necessary the lieutenant forged through a knot of drunken, chattering orcs then Maedhros paid it no heed, nay, he rather listened to the orcs' talk and what he heard appalled him. 

"...filthy great star snapping in the wind..." 

" _Nar_ , what an ugly thing!" 

"Morgoth's balls, get your axe out of my thigh! Don't push, eh? Oh! S-sorry, my lord..." 

" _Urktith-isnar_ , _yar_ , Shagurn saw it, didn't 'e? Oi, Shagurn! _Shagurn_!" 

"All the better to wipe your arse on it, eh?" 

Raucous laughter exploded through the group, and worry coiled all the tighter in the pit of Maedhros' stomach. A star they talked of, a great star, it was the sigil of his father and his house and now he remembered, a bold banner sewn by his mother's hand had flown from the highest post of the royal tent ere evil befell him. The silver star of the Fëanorions had gleamed out its pride over the fortified camp, but what had become of it now, espied, _mocked_ by orcs in Morgoth's keep? A stab of guilt flushed through Maedhros' innards; how fared his brothers in these hostile lands, and how fared his people under their command? It hurt so much to think upon them, and so he had tried not to, but now he could not escape their memory. For what if the Moringotto's troops had routed them, slain them, razed their fortifications to the ground, had come with axe and broadsword and gutting hook and set all to the slaughter? 

He did not know what had happened, he did not know why the orcs spoke of his banners so, _he did not know_ , and he was not fool enough to believe that the lieutenant would ever tell him. Bitterly his ignorance gnawed within his veins, yet behind it flowed a traitorous thought, it flowed and it latched and he could not shake it free. 

 _Why should you care?_     

They left you, they abandoned you, it crooned; with sick, _persuasive_ logic it enthralled him. They sold you, every last kinsman in that camp sold you to buy their own petty freedom, and even if it came about that the price was too steep then they would not lift a finger to claim you back. Why care what evil befell such faithless deserters? _Why do you hurt yourself, why do you allow yourself to be hurt for kin who have betrayed you,_ the lieutenant had asked him that once, and once he thought that he had known the answer, he had thought that his reply was just. But now, now, after so much was done, it was not the same, _it was not the same_ ; Angband's oppression seeped into his bones and he was no longer sure of his reply.

Deeper into the fortress' bowels the lieutenant led him, the stones grew cold and menacing about him as they descended, and as sumptuous marbles were replaced by grey, brittle slates, chill crept into Maedhros' heart. Sturdy, bolted doors studded into a dour corridor, and down it Maedhros was led, and trepidation curled in his stomach when at last the lieutenant paused. Malice crept through the air; a thin, whining pressure nudged at his temples, and such awful anticipation coiled in him as he saw the lieutenant's hand rest upon the door's sliding bolt. Yet still the Maia paused, and a strange look passed over his face; a wistful grimace plucked at his lips and for an instant he seemed about to speak, and at that tiny, vulnerable gesture Maedhros' blood ran cold. 

Swiftly though that moment passed, it was severed as the lieutenant's face hardened, he slid free the bolt upon the door and wrenched it open. Viciously Maedhros was shoved through its waiting maw, and as he crossed its threshold pain erupted through his skull. 

Like an axe cloven through rotted wood agony burst through his mind, Morgoth's vile brand seared upon his chest as if written anew in flame, and Maedhros could but gasp as that pain racked through him and throttled the breath from his lungs. And where the lieutenant relinquished the grip upon his leash he staggered, he crashed down to his knees; with bloodless, trembling fingers he clutched his head into his hands as if somehow that might block out the barrage of pain that tore at him, that skewered him, that devoured him. Tears blurred over his eyes, he could scarcely open them to glimpse his surroundings for the etchings of pain that carved themselves into his chest, that howled in his skull, yet unmistakeable was the voice that came splitting through his head.

 _"You."_ Suddenly over him the Moringotto stood; clad in black raiment and fouler mood, and the lieutenant stood beside him, and at the scorching waves of puissance that rolled from Morgoth's very being Maedhros scrambled back. He could smell the wine on the lord's breath, the stench of it was like something rotted, and terrible were his eyes, lit like golden gledes of madness beneath an iron crown. _"Your defiance has reached its end."_  

A strangled gulp clotted in Maedhros' throat, words flashed through his mind but he could not make them be still, he could not make them form; a desperate, burning breath he drew into his lungs but again the Moringotto's power slammed into him, shook him, hurt him; it was as if a hammer blow had smashed into his chest, and with it he collapsed. Upon the cold stones below he could but convulse as words fled him, reason was expunged; endless, unrelenting, unyielding cruelty wrenched at him and he could not even draw forth the strength to gag as it constricted the life from him. Blood frothed upon his lips as desperately he clung to himself; his innards boiled and bones grated and his head felt like it would fall apart into his hands from the agony that howled within it, and - 

A terrible, clicking rasp of breath punched into his lungs as suddenly that pain vanished; the shock of it ripped through him and scoured thought from his mind; there was nothing but the visceral euphoria of un-pain that left him spluttering upon the floor.    

 _"You have clung to your pathetic pretences of pride for far too long."_ The Moringotto's voice was harsh, bloody; gone was its once gloating lilt and it was filled only with hatred. _"No more."_

Hideous bands of pressure constricted about his chest, and frantically Maedhros writhed against them; it felt as though some horrific vice were crushing down upon his ribs until bones might splinter, until his lungs might burst. It felt as though his sternum would shatter with the force of it; blood trickled from his nose and bubbled with the wheezing, hiccupping little gasps of air sent flitting over his lips. 

 _"You will tell us what we wish to know,"_ the Moringotto growled, _"and if you can conceive of wisdom then you will speak quickly."_  

"N-no..." From where came that tiny, defiant word Maedhros could not say, through reddened teeth it crawled, an instinctive, ruined thing, yet how swiftly he came to regret its passing as the Moringotto snarled. 

And with that wordless noise of rage and hate it was as if all the light in the world was extinguished, nothing but blackness grasped at him, lunged at him, alone in a maelstrom of evil he was cast out to suffer. Yet even that blackness brought no respite, for an instant later a cavalcade of images smashed across his mind and how his consciousness reeled with the force of them. The world re-knitted itself about him in a fabric of pain and every phantom was made real, every hurt drew blood; there would be no salvation from the demons that hounded him. 

A cage, a cage barred and bolted and deathly pale he hung within it; emaciated arms blistered with lice and sores erupted from joints chafed by chain and fetter, wet and oozing they dripped their suffering to the ground far below and he hissed as the agony of them redoubled upon him. But worse was the hunger, such hunger tore at him that he would have clawed it out of his skin just to be rid of it. Every twitch of his limbs was an agony and even as he hung there came a hideous screech, a carrion bird rattled past his cage and death was in its eyes. 

 _"For what purpose did your father raise your people to flight?"_  

The Moringotto's voice thrummed through the fabric of the world, and he heeded it but he did not; talons thick as daggers alighted upon the cage and raucously the vultures cawed, their cruel beaks snapping and slaked in gore. Terror clove through his heart as those foul beaks lunged at him, they tore, they tore, they screeched in their victory as flesh was ripped from bone, and though he thrashed and shook Maedhros could not fight them, he could not move, he could only scream in his agony as again and again and again the birds speared into his flesh and - 

 _"For what purpose did you alight upon these shores?"_  

\- skin peeled as they devoured him, it was pulled away in agonising strips of flesh and behind it came only pain, only pain, and some vestige of sanity in him shook loose the words. 

"I c-... I c-can't t-tell y-" 

And how his speech cut off into a _scream_ as into the flesh of his face a vulture sank its beak, his eyeball it punctured with a ravenous beak and plucked it forth, aimless clots of gore trailed like severed strings before the heat of it consumed him; the world buckled and was torn away. 

 _"What purpose have you in these lands, save your quest for petty vengeance? To what ill fate now will Macalaurë lead your worthless people?"_

A smith's hammer played before his eyes; it loomed in terrible, shadowed un-focus and desperately he tried to tear himself away from it. But his wrists would not budge in the iron bonds that held his arms outstretched, his ankles could not move; before his terrified eyes the hammer was raised, raised, raised, and agony smashed through his elbow where it fell. A scream razed his throat dry, shock pounded through his body and again he saw the hammer rise; frantically, desperately he scratched within his bonds, pain scudded up his arm from an elbow left mangled, but his bonds would not give, they would not give, and the hammer raised, and helplessly he croaked, "I don't know! I don't - " 

A guttural shriek of agony tore from him as his kneecap shattered, bone sheared, and again the hammer was raised, and again and again and again it fell, hip and knee and elbow it broke him; and such pain twisted through his body that he could but retch with the force of it. 

_"How many of your people skulk among the hills?"_

Everything changed, with the hollow reverberations of shock everything changed; thread pierced through his flesh and helplessly he writhed; every tiny, taut resistance of skin, every puncture of subcutaneous matter, every slick, sliding tug of thread was drawn out into such excruciating clarity. His arms, his stomach, his chest; freckles were spattered over with blood as in and out the needle dipped, in and out, foreign skin was sutured together until it was made one; they broke him apart and found another and sewed them together, and together they were made something less than whole.  

 _"What arms have you, what soldiery?"_

And beyond the capacity of words he could only gasp as thread drew tight, to another body he was pressed, his brother, his brother, _Ambarussa_ , quailing instinct screamed his name in the throes of its madness and into a foul embrace they were sewed, one warm and hale and the other sallow; bloated and swollen with the weight of water, and horror quavered in Maedhros' heart. Desperately he tried to recoil, to pull away, yet cruelly tight that thread held him; weeds tangled through auburn hair, a gout of seawater poured from lifeless lips and behind it came only a rattle of ashes, a coughing, wheezing spew of burning flesh and only then it was that he felt the waters closing over his head. He felt his brother's body dragging him down and frantically he thrashed, he kicked, he bucked, but too tight he was pulled, too tight, he was sinking, the weight of him was too heavy and together they would drown, drown, _drown_. 

He couldn't breathe, panic flooded through his veins and reality came crashing back down but he _couldn't breathe_ ; frantic fingers scrabbled at his collar as the Moringotto's shadow loomed over him. 

 _"How many?"_  

"N-no..." Maedhros gurgled, blood drooled from his lips as he spluttered, as he writhed; an unearthly snarl contorted the Moringotto's features and an instant later came the crack of bone. 

Upon Maedhros' unprotected thigh the Moringotto's boot came crashing down and darkest puissance sang with that blow; a stunning, crippling impact slammed through Maedhros' body and an instant later came the breathless shriek as his femur shattered. Spasms of agony wracked through him and horrifically he keened, he clutched at his leg with bloodless, shaking fingers and finally then the tears came; shock and terror and exhaustion slammed through him and crumpled there before the Moringotto's feet he could but sob. 

Forward Morgoth stepped, and what frantic, futile instinct compelled him to move he could not say, he knew only that it did; beyond sense, beyond reason, beyond sanity he dragged himself backwards, white-hot clenches of pain hammered through his leg as he hauled himself away, he moved and he moved and he moved until the walls of the cell hemmed him close, and in their corner he curled himself up as best as he could, he shielded his head from the hatred of the world and simply sobbed out his misery. 

 _"How many, wretch?"_  

Black puissance swarmed over him, again the Moringotto's power rattled through him and suddenly the scuffle of bodies surrounded him. Agony twisted to delirium in his veins and it dragged up something vile, loathing gnawed at his heart and relentlessly his head snapped up. Through corrupt, bloodshot-eyes he looked, he panted, he stalked, he looked down upon the thing cowering on the floor before him and how he hated it. Braids spilled half-undone like entrails before him, golden ribbon pooled like blood and where he stepped the thing scrabbled backwards. 

"Nelyo," it said, _he_ said, he pleaded, "Nelyo, stop," only it wasn't him, it _wasn't_ , it could not be him, that name meant nothing to the thing that howled inside of Maedhros' heart. That violent, evil thing, it blossomed in his blood and onwards he came and Findekáno looked upon him and there was nothing in his gaze but _weakness_. 

"Nelyo, please..." 

He begged, he _begged_ , and anger smashed through Maedhros' veins; he lunged forward and clouted his lover across his face. The sob that lurched from Findekáno's chest only set his blood aflame, hurt throbbed in his innards and he didn't care as he smashed his boot into Finno's stomach, he didn't care as his cousin retched and gagged before him. His fingers clenched through Finno's hair, pain coiled in his belly and he threw his cousin bodily across the room, hard his boot slammed into Findekáno's ribs and the cry of pain upon his cousin's lips only tasted of victory. Bruising fingers pressed him down to the stones, "stop!" Finno cried, he sobbed and twisted and bucked, "s-stop, Nelyo, please, please stop..." But he didn't care, _he didn't care_ ; fury howled in his blood and he kicked his cousin's legs apart, he held him down and he slammed himself up inside of him, and the sound of Finno's retching only made him stronger, the quiver of Finno's hurt only made him burn the brighter. 

Because for once somebody else was hurting; a vicious, dirty, victorious part of him shrieked its bloodlust; that somebody else knew what suffering was, was helplessness was, somebody else knew what it was to be abused, and just for a moment somebody else could feel a fraction of what he felt, all of that hurt and betrayal and loss and rage twisted up beyond endurance. 

In a gout of hatred that gutting truth flowed from him, and behind it came only emptiness.

Whimpering, hysterical little sobs racked through Maedhros' chest; he cradled his aching head into the shaking juncture of his knees, and his broken leg scarcely seemed to hurt anymore as shock numbed the strength from his limbs. Yet onwards still the Moringotto came, this pain would not end, this pain _would not end_ ; panic ignited in Maedhros' veins and far, far beyond the capacity of words he sobbed his terror into the stones. 

And whether some higher act of mercy in that moment played its hand, or whether the cold heart of Morgoth's lieutenant was somehow moved to pity, none could truly say, but as the Moringotto stepped forward so too did the Maia. Upon his lord's arm Mairon suddenly laid his hand, grim were his eyes and softly he said, "Wait, my lord. Please, wait." 

Fury burned in the Moringotto's gaze but balefully he acquiesced; slowly, and carefully, the lieutenant approached Maedhros where he huddled, at his shivering side the Maia crouched down. The shock of the Maia's hand laid gently upon his shoulder sent a sob hitching through Maedhros' chest, and tighter still he curled himself up. 

"This can end, Maitimo," the lieutenant murmured; soft and intimate and somehow sincere was his voice, vanished was all tone of spite into gentle melancholy. "This can end, right now, I will make this end, if you would but tell me what my lord wishes to know." 

A wet, clicking breath caught in Maedhros' throat, words formed and dissolved before they could ever be spoken, and all too strongly did the tremors of shock begin to shake through his shoulders. 

"Let this end," the lieutenant implored him, and how greatly Maedhros wished to obey, the need of it clamoured in his stomach but still the words would not come, his mind reeled into haunted nothingness, and it was only the lieutenant's voice left that tethered him to some small measure of lucidity. "This suffering, this pain," Mairon murmured, "it can all be erased, if you would but help me." 

Tremors shook through Maedhros' fingers and for a moment they slipped, his knees slid apart and pain flared up his leg and his head lolled with the hurt of it, fatigue dragged at him with iron claws but the lieutenant was there to catch him, to hold him. Mairon's hand gently cupped his cheek, the Maia lifted his head and gently stroked the sweaty hair back from his face, and fresh tears glossed over Maedhros' bleary eyes. Because maybe just this once the lieutenant was telling him the truth, already the Maia stood between himself and Morgoth's wrath and maybe he would do it just once more, maybe finally he would be allowed to rest, maybe for one stunning moment he could just stop _hurting_. 

"How many are your people, Maitimo?" the lieutenant crooned, and as a delirious whimper bubbled up out of Maedhros' throat softly he murmured, "Hey, hey, hush now, come, you need not be afraid of me, not now. Not now. Just tell me this, please, and this all will end, I swear this to you. How many?" 

And with what kindness the Maia undid him none should ever know; at last all of that stress and pain and exhaustion became all too much to bear, whatever tiny banks of defiance still held back the breaking of the dam crumbled, and they were swept away in the bitter flood. For there in his abuser's hands at last the truth came, in shaking, painful breaths it limped over his lips, and Maedhros croaked, "F-forty-five score. Our p-people... forty-five score. Seven... seventeen score soldiery, three sc-score mounted... the rest women-folk and ch-children... " 

Steadily the lieutenant nodded, and silent, defeated tears trickled down Maedhros' cheeks as he continued, "We... we wanted our f-freedom. Freedom from the Valar, from... from tyranny. And the Oath, the Oath d-drives us... I... I p-promised..." 

Into a choking sob Maedhros' words dissolved, pain and guilt clove through his stomach and ate him away, and he could say no more for the tears that devoured him. Tenderly then the Maia relinquished him, his head lolled forward onto his knees and there he lay, and at his side Mairon stood and turned to face the Moringotto. 

A perilous look marred the lord's features, cruel puissance crackled upon his greyed fingertips, and even as the lieutenant turned to face him Morgoth growled, _"He lies."_

"No," Mairon replied simply, emptily. "He does not." 

 _"On your head be it,"_ the Moringotto pronounced, before turning abruptly on his heel and stalking from the chamber. 

Deeply the lieutenant sighed, and for a moment remained motionless, before at last turning back to Maedhros curled in the corner before him. 

It was only through the haziest dream of delirium that Maedhros felt the lieutenant's arms slowly cross his shoulders and slip beneath his folded knees; pain dulled all resistance from his limbs as gently the Maia lifted him, cradling him against his chest as a father would a sleeping child. And held there in his torturer's arms at last exhaustion proved too much, such fathomless guilt hammered in his heart but for a moment he could outrun it, for a moment he could be safe; the dim embrace of oblivion opened to him and towards it he leapt, and for a while he knew no more of evil. 

 

* * *

_A tremendous thank you to anyone who's read this far, for all of your dedication and patience in the time taken to finally update this fic. It means a lot to know that people have (hopefully!) enjoyed it, even after so long an absence - sadly Masters degrees do not do themselves, leaving precious little time to write! I just hope that the wait was worth it!_

_EDIT: If you want a stunning visual of Thuringwethil and Mairon being their evil selves, and poor Maedhros looking thoroughly miserable, come and check out[@glorfy-the-bright-haired-ellon's wonderful piece of art! ](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/post/147334142862/glorfy-the-bright-haired-ellon-fanart-for)_

_As usual: all questions, comments, and concerns are very welcome, nay indeed treasured, either here on AO3 or on Tumblr -[markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask) is the place to be! Or use the message thingy to strike up a conversation - I don't bite, I promise (unless you're into that...)! _

_I shan't make promises for swiftness in updating this fic further, because inevitably I will break them, but I promise you this, there is more to come. Eventually. Until next time, theeventualwinner xx_

 


	8. Mercy And Bile

 

Pain was such an abstract thing; it lilted, it rolled, it skewered, it throbbed; like flotsam strewn upon its uncertain current he floated, he sank, he was spun apart. There was nothing left to him but the blur of agony in his veins. Sweaty, splintered images broke before his eyes, all whirling lights and visceral colours, and whether they were true or false or lies or dreams he did not know, he could not know, but he feared them. He feared what suffering their clarity might bring. 

Every phantom drift of motion was disorienting, agony hammered through his leg and turned his mouth to rust as each insidious wave of pain dragged with it only nausea; sickness clawed through his stomach long since emptied and left twisting in its famine.

He gnawed at himself, full of spite. 

Yet amid those gentle, devastating waves something lighter fluttered; within his breast his _fëa_ tugged, it fretted and scratched at his ribcage, it yearned to be free of the abuses of his body, and yet it could not leave. With mindless fervour it jerked at him, it pulled and pulled and pulled and every futile motion was as a knife twisted through his heart, for even as he begged for it to go, he knew that it would not. That ugly, ensorcelled brand upon his chest anchored it so cruelly into flesh; it was an abomination, a perversion against all that was natural, the corruption of it spread through him like a cancer and at last his _fëa_ tired, it limped away to lick its wounds, and after that came numbness, and he welcomed its oblivion.   

Arches of stone gaped like cavernous mouths above him, the scratch of fabric hissed too loudly in his ears as through a haze of delirium he danced; steel gleamed and the light bled crimson and it dripped down the dreary stones. It pooled beneath him, red and sticky and vital and _red_ , then something stabbed into his arm and it all dissolved. He wheeled away into nothingness, aseptic monotony, a dim and peaceful gloaming. 

"When will he awaken?" 

A voice slid through the mire of his dreams, foul and yet fascinating. Like ripples cast across a glass-still pond, like the first tremor of the silent ice with the coming of Laurelin's light it entranced him, and it terrified him. It drew him closer to that fearful clarity.  

"I cannot say," another voice replied, and with it something stirred within his heart; the glint of metal and the reek of herbs, and the bitter ache of bone.

"You cannot say, or you will not?" 

The first voice ran like honey, thick and melodious, and fear trembled in Maedhros' stomach. It knew him, that voice, and he knew it; intimately, terribly, he knew it. It peeled him apart and sent him scattering. 

"I _cannot_ say," the second voice snapped. "He is in shock, to no surprise! These wounds run deep, nar, deeper than flesh. His femur is shattered: I have done all that I can. Valerian, _genghrish_ , arnica, willow bark; Yttrys has come from her solitude below to draw the ash-runes upon him. She has shaped the steel, and made it strong. There is nothing more that can be done."    

Something itched upon Maedhros' chest, and though he tried to rouse himself to motion, to brush that feeling away, even with the slightest twitch of conscious muscle how swiftly he came undone. The world seemed to flex about him, it heaved like a leviathan stirred from its slumber and cast him spinning in its eddies, tumbling along its shockwaves into blackness, into numbness.

Shapeless time unravelled before him, but again there came voices, different voices; they cut searing lines of brightness through his twilight world. All acidic greens and carcinogen reds, they stunned him, they shook him, and he shrank away, like some blind, troglodytic thing dragged from its home and left to cower beneath the stars. 

"Bosses 'll be runnin' us ragged tryin' to mine it all out..." 

A bolt of pain slammed through his leg, the suddenness of it made him feel giddy, vulnerable; nausea came all clamouring up in his throat and desperately he clung to the voices that floated over him, for although they frightened him at least they were real, he thought, at least they made sense. 

"Ach, _gurth-knurr_ , we're already flagging as it is! You're sayin' it's going to get _worse_?" 

"Well, I over'eard Kuragh sayin' that the quotas ain't being met. Not enough work being done, nar, not by a long shot. We're lagging four thousand tonnes, 'e said."

A spasm of pain rippled through Maedhros' leg, abused flesh pounded out its anguish and desperately he tried to bite it down, to swallow it, to listen.

"They're hungry," the first voice said, coarser than the other. "They're _nervous_. The bosses need more ore for the furnaces; iron, weapons, machinery, y'know, for the war. Going to be a push soon against that Elvish scum, that's what Tahruk says."

"Liar!" the second voice snorted; a wave of heat rolled through Maedhros' stomach, blackness reared up inside of his heart and before it he quailed. "How'd you know what he says? You've never met Tahruk, unless it was on the end of his whip!" 

A few heavy, awkward breaths passed; a hammer raised before his eyes and transfixed by terror he could only stare at it, heavy and louring and stained with gore, he could only wait for it to fall, again and again and again it would fall down upon him...    

"Nar," the first voice mumbled at last. "Nar, alright, I haven't met 'im. But that's what Grishnag said that Tahruk said, so - _Argh_!" the voice grunted; pain exploded through Maedhros' thigh and shook the breath from his lungs. The scuffle of bodies sounded around him and helplessly he lay there, the shock of agony stripped him raw and left him there to suffer. "Bastard thing! Got me right through the hand..." 

Words were uttered in a guttural tongue, and panic bloomed in Maedhros' stomach at their anger. Always they hounded him, always they chased, _they wouldn't leave him alone_ ; terror set his thoughts spinning, shifting, _drowning_ ; water closed over his head and numbing silence filled his bones. 

"It weren't Lofthur's fault, not really..." the voice muttered. "Dunno what the captains expect, given the hurry... Besides, we need some more o' this miserable lot. Like this little maggot!" it growled. "He don't look so ill that he can't swing a pick!" 

Something cold twisted in Maedhros' guts, something slimed, something ghoulish; _they were talking about him_ ; panic wrapped about his throat like weeds, water lapped at his lips and he dared not open them, he dared not move.

"You going blind as well as daft?" the second scoffed. "See that thing on its leg? It'll be lame for a while, this one, if it ever walks again. Won't be much use down the mines if it can't stand up!" 

"Oh," the first voice mumbled. "Oh, yeah, well, yeah... there's that. But when he's healed, eh? Styrrak'll fix 'im up, you watch! And then? Fodder for the furnaces!" 

The taste of salt scraped over his tongue, tighter and tighter the weeds bound about him, they forced the air bubbling out from his lungs and everywhere there was the scent of ashes, the crushing weight of water; his heart hammered within his chest and with it came only pain, it came slamming up his leg and terror climbed with it, it grew, it _roared_ , it roared like the rush of flames upon the water and - 

"Ow! Watch what you're doin' with that needle!" 

\- and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, seaweed gripped about his throat and the ache of metal dragged him down and - 

 _Stop..._

"Oh, quit your griping!" 

_Nelyo, please..._

_-_ hoarse croaks of pain echoed in his ears and how they tore at him, bands of pressure wrapped about his chest and mercilessly began to squeeze - 

 _Stop, s-stop, please..._

_-_ and he couldn't be strong, he couldn't keep them out, delirious agony glittered in his veins and with it swam madness, swam torment, swam all of those hidden things now dredged up into the light. 

 _S-stop, Nelyo, please, please..._

Those noises, those horrible, _horrible_ chokes of breath; he would have torn out his ears to make them stop, to let them end, to quell the thing inside of him that brought them to life. But surely they were better than the sobs that came after, the quiet ones, the defeated ones, the crush of bodies and the violence; he looked upon the terror in his cousin's eyes and how _glorious_ it felt. 

Hollow, hollow, _you are faithless, forsaken; you are worthless in the eyes of those who behold you,_ the Moringotto's words gnawed at him, deathly puissance glimmered still in his blood and with it sanity reeled. Metal talons gripped him, avian caws whined in his ears and the snap of their beaks were as steel drilled through bone, silver screws breaching flesh with wordless howls of pain. Skin puckered; swollen, bloody pustules clustered like scabrous lice about rivets driven through muscle, the clink of chains drifted in his ears and horror swam before his eyes as he glimpsed, as he glimpsed, as he _screamed_. 

A stab of pain and then lightness, unrealness; he was broken and remade like froth upon the crashing waves of madness. Meaningless words jabbered in his ears, shifting lights wheeled before him and dumbly he stared at them; a kaleidoscopic array of colour and bloom, close and looming and yet so terribly far away. For how long he wandered among them he did not know, amid his phantom world it was only a fierce hiss of outrage that slid to him from somewhere far above that pierced the veils of his narcosis. 

"Do not beg me to fix what you have broken, like an ungrateful orcling throws away its toy," a voice spat, an orcish voice, snarled and low. "I am no mindless tinkerer of petty hurts: I craft flesh, I sculpt bone. I bid marrow run and nerves to sing. These things I have done since you were but mewling at Aulë's teat in your ignorance!" 

"Styrrak - " Another voice broke in, and anxiousness knotted in Maedhros' stomach as he recognised that smooth, honeyed tone. Though not so smooth, not anymore; the voice was worn thin and tight. 

"Impatience betrays you, lieutenant," the first voice growled. "Impatience, and arrogance. For you, with all your power, you think that you might heal better than I? Then I beg of you, _my lord_ : try." 

"Styrrak, please," the lieutenant sighed. "Please, I... Time is short." 

"What is time to you?" the orc rumbled. "You are ageless, as is our lord, as is he. You do not erode as we do. Your flesh does not decay." 

"No," the lieutenant said, and at the strain in his voice Maedhros' throat clenched. "It does not." 

A grievous silence rent the air; a dull ache seeped through Maedhros' spine, yet all he could do was breathe, and wait, and worry. 

"My lord?" 

Again there was nothingness, just the hushed simmer of resentment and pain and the taut thudding of his heart. 

"Mairon?" Vanished was the scorn of before; concern wound through the orc's voice, and Maedhros listened in dawning horror as it murmured, "Mairon, allow me to see..." 

The shift of fabric crackled in Maedhros' ears; Styrrak's grumble of dismay rang strangely in his heart, and the lieutenant breathed, "Leave it alone." 

Such horrible _understanding_ bled to him as the moments trickled on, as threads of rumour and glimpses of possibility coalesced into truth, and the Maia said, "They're just bruises..." 

"Just bruises..." Styrrak echoed. "Mairon... this..." With some effort the orc seemed to gather itself, and at last it said, "That will scar if you will not let me tend it." 

"Then let it," the Maia spat; sudden bitterness twisted in his tone and set a thrill of unease lancing through Maedhros' blood. "I have many." 

"Mairon..." 

"I am sorry for my harshness, Styrrak," the lieutenant said wearily, bluntly. "I spoke in haste, and that was... uncouth of me. I mean no disrespect to you or your craft. But with this I charge you, and for all of our long years of service together, I bid you obey. Heal him. I do not care how; with what sorcery, machinery, herbs, none. But I need him conscious, lucid and obedient. And I need it quickly." 

If words were spoken after that then Maedhros did not hear them. They were swallowed up in the dread that consumed him. For though terrible in the imagining, how much worse was the fact: this suffering would not end, _it would not end_ , the lieutenant wanted him still, the Moringotto would not let him go, and panic fluttered through his heart to dare conceive of what more they might do. Again they would hurt him, again and again and again, unending, eternal; every moment he spent adrift in delirium was a moment of respite, yet even as he yearned for oblivion then how cruelly it slipped away. 

Grey light seeped through blackness, fabric itched upon his skin; it felt so brittle and so rough about his waist, below his shoulders, beneath his hips; hunger twisted in his stomach and fervently he wished it be gone, he longed for the bliss of unconsciousness once more. But it would not come to him, even in this his body betrayed him, and for the first time in days his lips parted, his head lolled blearily across a thin pillow, and a moan flickered in his throat as the gentle veils of sleep were stripped away. 

Nobody would come for him; the thought lurched within him: _nobody would come_. The grief of it tore at him, it emptied out into nothing but guilt. Traitor, traitor; each beat of his heart slammed the truth of it through him, it etched him in his shame. For he had yielded, he had been weak, he had betrayed them: his brothers, his family, his people; he had betrayed them, and bitter was that fact to swallow. They would never come for him now; Káno would turn his face from him. _Cruel, cunning Macalaurë, a crown bought for the price of a snivelling beast like you,_ the lieutenant had told him that, the lieutenant had told him that and now his words had come to pass. And now Káno would abandon him, and Turko would hate him, and Curvo would condemn him, and they would all leave him here to suffer, and he would deserve it. 

 _He would deserve it_. The thought plucked at his bones. 

"Káno..." he mumbled, the words slurred over his tongue in a blaze of heat and sorrow. "Káno... I'm sorry..." 

 _Let this end_ , the lieutenant had implored him, had held him, had coaxed him; had shielded him from hurt and how that small act of treachery had made him corrode. 

"Please... please, Káno..." 

Tears had trickled down his cheeks, cradled there in the lieutenant's arms he didn't want to tell them, he didn't want to, did he? But still the words had come, he had spoken them, he had told them... 

"I d-didn't mean to..." 

 _But you did mean to,_ something cold within him chimed. _To save yourself, to buy a measure of comfort in your miserable life, you sold them. You betrayed them. You weighed the value of your people's lives against your own, and you found them the lesser._

"No," he whispered. "No..."

 _Selfish little whore._

"No..." he choked; the air shuddered into his lungs and tears grazed over his eyes and - 

" _Hoi_!" 

The orcish cry sent fright jarring through Maedhros' veins, and instinctively he tried to curl himself up, to draw himself away from that dreadful sound. But his limbs would not obey him; his arms lay leaden at his sides, and beyond the kilt left knotted about his waist his legs... _his leg_... Blind, seething horror clenched in his heart as he glimpsed the metal that surrounded him, and he turned his face away in anguish as again an orc cried, "Hoi, Styrrak! _Styrrak_! _Arug-nur, kvash_!" 

Maybe it wouldn't hurt, he thought, he hoped, he _pleaded_ ; maybe it wouldn't hurt, maybe he could just go back to sleep, he could glide back into that nothingness where they could not chase him, they could not catch him, he could just dissolve away and - 

"Maitimo..."

The sound of his name pulled him back to grim reality; his eyes flickered open and he shied weakly away from the orc that leaned over him. 

"Come, Maitimo," the orc spoke softly, calmly, and he knew that voice, and though it worried at him he could not find it within himself to hate it. The broad leather bandoleer slung across the orc's chest was so wearily familiar, it glinted with hints of glass and steel, and the earthy smell of the orc's ochre-clad hair stirred uneasy memories within his heart.   

"Come, yes, that's it, come," the orc was murmuring, it peered over him with ruddy eyes, yet for the gentleness of its tone Maedhros flinched as it laid a hand upon his chest. A whimper echoed from his throat at that foreign touch, but carefully Styrrak held him there; _Styrrak, that was its name,_ and two gnarled fingers felt for his pulse at the cleft of his collarbones.

"Hush, hush, _thralkûn_ , Maitimo, be unafraid," the orc said, and seemingly satisfied with his pulse it reached upwards, and gently adjusted his collar from its biting grip upon his throat. "There, just breathe now. Breathe." 

For a moment then Styrrak withdrew, it spoke some orders to an attendant who hovered nearby, and swiftly scurried away at its master's command. Yet Maedhros was heedless to such events; as a modicum of strength crept back to his muscles he shifted in his repose, and with that motion his eyes fell once more upon the thing that clamped about his thigh, and horror speared through his heart. Grotesque, purpled flesh swelled around steel rivets that supported some vile scaffold, the thing punctured through him, it was screwed _into_ him, and like a shockwave the pain of it slammed into him, it sent the breath skidding from his teeth with its fury.

"Maitimo?" Styrrak murmured, its attention readily fixed upon him once more. "Maitimo, come. Come, do not look. Do not look until you are ready." 

With glazed, frantic eyes Maedhros stared back at the orc, horror and pain scudded through him, paralysing in their onslaught; his throat locked and his heart thudded and desperately he choked, he tried to force even one panicky breath back into his lungs. 

"Maitimo," the orc said swiftly, "Maitimo, listen to me. Listen now, can you tell me where you are? Can you tell me that, hmm?" 

The orc's words wheeled giddily through his head, but hard he gripped to them as his eyes flitted about the room: the dour stone, the ceaseless crimson light, the bone-white starch of the linen poised across his waist. He did know, _he did know_ ; memory and intuition clicked together with a phantom snare of pain, but even as he tried to speak only a ruined, half-formed croak fell from his lips. 

"... The... the infirmary..." he rasped, his throat felt as though it were coated in grit, but how relief broke in his heart as Styrrak nodded encouragingly down at him. 

"Good, good," the orc smiled. "Now, do you remember my name?" 

"S-Styrrak," he breathed; the syllables stuck awkwardly in his throat left clagged with stale saliva. 

"Very good," Styrrak replied, and as the attendant hurried back into the room and set two wooden bowls down by the bedside, the orc took one up. "Now, you will have some water." 

Faintly Maedhros nodded, and as best as his sore, trembling muscles could manage he levered himself up from the cot upon which he lay. Ignoring the stab of pain in his leg he twisted himself to one side, and propped up upon one shaky elbow he accepted the bowl of water as it was held to his lips. The crispness of it seemed to steady him, and once sated he sank back down upon the mattress, and wrestled with the dread that tugged at his heart.

"... My leg..." he ventured at last, but quickly Styrrak halted him.

"Not yet," it said. "Not yet. First some food, for your strength." 

Before him Styrrak lifted a bowl of thin, warm porridge, but even the enticing scent of sweet honey drizzled atop it could not stop Maedhros' stomach from turning. 

 _Eat it like a dog, then,_ the jailor had spat at him; dull ghosts of pain throbbed across his knuckles, and though hunger yowled deep in his guts, hoarsely he whispered, "I'm not hungry." 

"Yes, you are," the orc said firmly, and dread stole through Maedhros' blood as Styrrak's expression grew stern. "You have been asleep for many days: you are starved, you are dehydrated. You are injured, and you must eat, in order to heal." 

The mealy-sweet scent of the porridge wafted to him and revulsion turned in his stomach. "I don't want it." 

"Come, Maitimo..." 

"No!" Visceral disgust lent strength to his protest, and sharply he tugged himself away; he grunted in pain as his injured leg spasmed, but through sweat beaded upon his brow still he turned his face from the orc. Yet with what cruel ease was such defiance undone: Styrrak simply leant over him, and with fingers like iron turned his head back. 

"I do not wish to harm you," the orc said, "but you must eat. And you will." 

"No," Maedhros spat; loathing tinged with panic ignited in his veins and as best as he could he struggled within the Styrrak's grip. "No, no, no..." 

A squeak of pain lurched from his lips as his broken leg was jostled, and the frown that crossed Styrrak's heavy brow sent fear spiralling through him. Desperately he tried to move, every muscle in his arms trembled in exhaustion as he tried to push himself away, but with pitiful ease the orc pressed him down. 

"Agruth!" Styrrak called, and from the corridor set beyond a wide, open archway the assistant swiftly returned. "Hold him," Styrrak said, and the smaller orc obeyed, gripping Maedhros' struggling wrists tightly and pinning them down to the mattress. "Bind him there." 

"No," Maedhros croaked; mounting hysteria trapped the words in his throat as from an unseen crevice within the bedframe the orc unfurled thick leather straps, and to the utmost limits of his ailing body Maedhros fought as it pinioned his wrists within them, binding his hands firmly down at his sides. "No," he bubbled, he rocked and tugged as the orc pulled the straps tight, "no, no, no, _please_ , please don't, _please_..."

"It is for your own good that I do this, Maitimo," Styrrak said, and though its tone was soft, it was not forgiving. Still though he fought, he bucked and scrabbled and whimpered until his frantic exertions drained him, pain washed through his limbs and dismally he lay panting upon the bedframe, his hair straggling across flushed, sweat-sheened cheeks. 

The stab of a syringe into the exposed crook of his elbow was a cruelty almost beyond endurance; with reproach in its gaze Styrrak looked down upon him, and a tiny noise of defeat ebbed from his throat as with devastating speed the drug took effect. It wrenched the pain from him and cast him spinning amid an ocean of glittering, analgesic bliss, and as he swirled within its ecstasy he sagged within his bonds. His head lolled across the pillow and no longer could he protest as the assistant slipped behind him, as it lifted him and held him close, as Styrrak spooned the porridge past his lips and reflexively he swallowed it down.   

It was so hateful, every mouthful of it was monstrous, yet with each passing second how that resolve crumbled; flecks of grey sparked across his vision, they flocked like carrion birds to a kill and at last they overwhelmed him, and for a time he faded from the world.

 

* * *

 

It was all too soon that Styrrak's voice called him from his slumber, and for how many hours or days that he had floated in opiate dreams he did not know, and he did not care to guess. But for that narcosis somehow he felt the stronger; his pulse beat quicker in his veins, more assured were his thoughts and what ginger movements that he dared, and this time he did not refuse food once offered to him. Thrice more the orcs fed and watered him, they kept him bound like some feral animal and simply spooned his meal past his lips, but upon the fourth occasion they judged him to be sound. There were bruises still upon his wrists as they were released from the straps, pallid blooms of yellow clouded beneath his skin; he gazed dully at them as he clasped a bowl of rice and mushrooms within his hands, and without protest he ate what was given to him. 

Sometimes Styrrak would talk to him, and warily he would reply, but when upon occasion the orc tended to the horrid contraption that ensnared his leg, he would fall silent in dismay. For about his thigh the scaffold clasped; four thick steel bolts pierced through his flesh to support the injury within it, and at their periphery concentric circles of thin metal banded together, like the spokes and rim of some terrible wheel with its hub embedded in bone. His femur was broken, cloven in two beneath the Moringotto's boot, Styrrak had told him that, and numbly he had nodded. They must immobilise it, re-align the two halves, secure the bone as it heals; horror lapped at the edges of shock as over and over again the sickening snap of bone played in his ears; the wet, yielding crunch, the rattling intake of breath, and the howl of anguish that came after.    

They had done what best they could, Styrrak said. Such anaesthetics as they could fashion they had administered to him, and analgesics too; a potent mix of camphor, poppy milk, _genghrish_ root and valerian. They had called fey Yttrys from her pits and she had drawn the _lithhaugrinn_ upon him, the ash-runes of orcish lore, for mending, Styrrak said, but with his words dread gathered in Maedhros' heart. Such things were not easy, they were not subtle; why was such effort expended upon the behalf of a slave, why not let healing progress in natural time? 

He dared not ask the question, for he feared already that he knew the answer. 

And all too soon, as inflammation waned and bone re-knitted in fragile skeins of tissue, as it hardened, as it ossified, so that answer arrived. The tramp of iron-shod boots came with brute purpose; Styrrak sat beside him upon the cot and was smearing a numbing cream over the flesh that puckered about the steel rods still embedded within him, when a burly uruk lumbered into the chamber. 

Its green, glinting eyes rested upon him for a moment, until with a cursory grunt it spoke to Styrrak, and though Maedhros did not understand the tongue, far too clearly did he understand the tone behind its words. Anxiousness knotted in his stomach as with a nod and a grumble it departed, and Styrrak turned back to him with a sigh. 

"Gather yourself, Maitimo," the orc said slowly. "The lords are not done with you yet." 

Ashen dismay yawned open in Maedhros' heart; quickly, almost disbelievingly he shook his head, and a despairing little noise crept from his throat as an attending orc scuttled by, and Styrrak hailed it.    

"Send word to the lord Mairon," Styrrak bade it. "Tell him that his prisoner is readied."

"N-no..." Maedhros croaked; horror sutured the words into his throat. "No, please... please don't..."

At Styrrak's nod the orc departed, and a pall of fear settled upon Maedhros' heart.

"I must," the orc said. "It is my duty."

"I can't go back to him..." The words were scarcely formed in Maedhros' mind; blank horror scraped them from his lips. "I can't... I can't go back..." 

A shrill, keening whimper ebbed from his throat as Styrrak turned silently back to its fleshcraft, but what comfort there was in the numbing salve that the orc spread across Maedhros' thigh was stolen clean away. It was a falsity, it was a lie, _they were going to hurt him again,_ again and again and again, and desperately he clamped down upon the tears that prickled behind his eyes. 

"Please," he gulped, "please, Styrrak... I - _I can't go back to him_..."

A terrible silence leached through the air, until at last the orc said, "You do not have a choice."

The finality in its voice was too much to bear. Terror gnawed at his bones and ate him away, and he could not even bring himself to protest as Styrrak continued to tend his leg; he simply lay there as one stricken dumb, a tranquil veneer to mask the naked fear that squalled within him. 

 _Obey them_ , the thought chimed, Styrrak had told him that once before: _obey, and they will not hurt you,_ and where once those words reeked of cowardice, now they were strung with sense. Yet still some stubborn thing inside of him railed at the thought of it; to submit himself willingly before the Moringotto and his demons, before the slayer of his kin and the wreaker of his misery, to voluntarily capitulate, to freely surrender: that was an atrocity worse than pain. Ire stirred in his blood at the notion of it: _lá axan, lá melmë, lá lár maciliva,_ _c_ _aurë hya raxë, lá mandë imma,_ those were the words that he had sworn, and the Oath bound him still, both curse and blessing. 

For a day he was left in such fraught anticipation; anxiety knotted in his belly at every footfall outside the archway of his chamber. Yet even as he fretted he felt the vigour that flowed anew through his veins; he was stronger now, he was sharper, and he bore his injuries through gritted teeth. Still the scaffold remained bolted to him, it lay awkwardly beneath the roughspun kilt that the orcs had given him, but with only moderate discomfort now could he move his leg a little, a slight flexion of his hip or full extension of his knee, and with each passing attempt it seemed that those movements became easier. 

Yet far too soon the dreaded tidings came to his chamber; a huge, swarthy uruk prowled into the room and snarled at him to move, it swatted aside his feeble protests as it clipped a short leash to his collar, and with one immense tug hauled him upwards. Pain screeched through his leg as far too roughly he was forced to bear weight upon it; muscles worn thin with disuse trembled under such abrupt strain, it felt as though his femur might shatter anew even as he thrust his weight upon his opposing leg, and were it not for the uruk's meaty hand that latched firmly about his bicep then he would certainly have fallen. 

It was all that he could do to maintain a semblance of balance as the uruk yanked him forwards; he stumbled with a lolling, ungainly step alongside it as it all but held him upright. Like a mangled beast he hobbled with it through the winding corridors of the infirmary; pain thudded through him with his every tender step, and every motion was made awkward by the splay of his legs, forced crudely apart to accommodate the diameter of the scaffold's arc between his thighs.

On and on it marched him, and Maedhros cringed with dismay as it drew him into Angband's bowels once more. Malevolent pressure beat upon his temples, unfamiliar corridors loomed up around him, and under their baleful ceilings he cowered. He was almost grateful of the uruk's oppressive bulk at his side as they elbowed through a throng of milling goblins, pauldrons and chainmail scraped at his bare torso as they forced their way through the crush, and his lips peeled back into a grimace as each step now became grueling. Through tapestry-swathed corridors and shadowy halls they tramped, and worriedly Maedhros glanced to the darkness, he pressed himself close to the uruk's side and desperately he tried not to listen to their solemn passage; he tried not to listen for fear of the unquiet things that lurked in the Moringotto's realm, for the treacherous tap of chitin or the hiss of hungry breath. 

Into a metal-grilled elevator sunk into the end of a busy corridor the uruk pushed him; together they crammed in amid a press of chattering orcs, and Maedhros could not meet their cruel, curious eyes as he stood leashed in the uruk's grip. With the squeal of metal cables and a gut-wrenching lurch they descended, and dread clenched all the tighter in Maedhros' stomach as the rush of air around him grew gradually heavier; foetid, bloated with the scent of earth and iron. But although worry flexed inside of him tightly he pressed it down: he was stronger now, he was alert, he was composed, _he would not be their victim,_ grim determination steeled in his blood and desperately he gripped to it. It was all that kept his fraying nerves together as the elevator at last juddered to a halt, and disgorged both the uruk and the orcish company into a large subterranean passage. Down a torch-lit way adjunct from the main corridor the uruk led him, the jabber of the orcs receded in his ears as they walked, and at last there came a series of doorways studded into the grey stone. 

One was left ajar, and Maedhros' heart was stony as the uruk pulled him to it, and with a growl bade him enter. 

Mean steel glinted in the light of a forge left to smoulder, barrels and boxes crammed onto shelves bolted to the cell's grimy walls, chains dripped from a sturdy set of crossbeams ridged across the ceiling. In mounting fear Maedhros glanced about the chamber; refusal blared in his heart, the shivering preludes of panic tremored in his veins as his eyes strayed to the monstrous array of instruments laid out across a wide stone workbench in the center of the cell. Knives, pliers, skewers, foul twists of metal that he could give no name to, they sat there winking at him in the light. 

Yet vile though such implements were, they were but pale ghosts of the terror against the thing that would wield them, the crooked thing that watched over them, the unholy thing that stepped forward from the shadows. And as the dread gaze of Morgoth's lieutenant fell upon him a miserable whine bolted from Maedhros' throat; hurt and dread and something far darker wrenched within him and set him trembling. It was only with a colossal effort of will that he bade himself stand; the dull ache of his thigh somehow helped to steady him as with a wave of the lieutenant's hand the uruk was dismissed. The door slammed shut in its wake, and as its percussion bounced around the cell Maedhros was so acutely conscious of just how alone he was.

Behind the bench the Maia stood; the glow of the forge limned him in a bloody light, and with predatory eyes he regarded his quarry.

"We may do this in whichever manner you please," the lieutenant said suddenly, and Maedhros shuddered to hear the eerily flat tone in his voice, devoid of all emotion. "We may be civil. We may speak as beings yet befitted of reason." The blond sweep of the Maia's hair shielded his face from view as he looked over the table, and Maedhros watched in growing horror as the lieutenant's fingers came to close about the hilt of a cruel, thin-bladed knife. "Or, we may not."

"I will not yield to you."

Where the words came from Maedhros did not know, he knew only that in that moment they seized him, they steeled him, they commanded that he stand where he longed to crumble. And though every faculty of sense within his mind shrieked at him otherwise, pride yet stirred in his blood; he would not surrender himself, not willingly, not willingly, _he would not do it_ ; _c_ _aurë hya raxë, lá mandë imma;_ anger born of despair flickered to life within him, and though the lieutenant's knuckles whitened about the hilt of the knife Maedhros did not look away. 

"No," he said, his voice low and bitterly controlled. "No... I was weak before. I was weak, and I wavered, but not now. _Not now_. You are not your master, and you are no master of mine. I see you for what you are, _demon_ , and I will not yield to you." 

The slow, grating scrape of the knife upon the stone benchtop set his skin crawling, fey puissance crackled in the air and his bravado swayed beneath it, he gritted his teeth as pain lanced up his thigh, and suddenly the lieutenant hissed, " _You ungrateful little whore_." 

Such was the venom in the Maia's voice that Maedhros took an instinctive step backwards; something flashed in the lieutenant's eyes that looked not entirely sane. "Everything that I did, everything that I have done for you and everything that I would offer, you would throw it all away, like a disloyal dog spurns its master for the promise of another's lap." 

"No - "

It was as if a hammer had cloven into Maedhros' belly, a shock of pressure slammed into him and sent him crumpling to his knees; metal howled and bones grated and even as he spluttered there the lieutenant rounded the bench, the knife wheeled between his fingers. 

 _"No?"_ he sneered. "What _ignobility_. What graciousness has the House of Fëanáro, when reason is spurned for spite? I have been kinder to you than ever you should deserve, and _this_ is how my generosity is repaid? With treachery, and deceit."

"That's not t-true," Maedhros coughed; each breath drawn through shocked muscles burned in his lungs, and as the lieutenant neared him now true fear broke through his heart. 

"My mercy has reached its end, elfling." 

A bestial snarl split the Maia's face, something violent burned in his eyes; a hand twisted through Maedhros' hair and a yelp of pain ripped from his lips as the lieutenant dragged him forwards. His knees grazed across the stones, the scaffold upon his thigh jarred with the force of such movement, and it was only as the lieutenant threw him against the side of the bench that the semblance of breath jolted back into his lungs.  

Desperately he held to the bench-top, he slumped half-curled against its side with his legs folded awkwardly beneath him, and hurriedly he drew himself back as the Maia leaned over him. 

"Your people," the lieutenant demanded, "your soldiery. Seventeen score infantry and three score mounted, this you have told us, and our scouts report near the mark. Yet from where come the arms for such a company? Were they brought upon your flight from the West, hoarded upon your ships? Or have you the means upon these shores with which to manufacture weaponry?" 

A scowl of hatred twisted Maedhros' lips; contempt and defiance guttered still in his heart, and balefully he spat, "I won't tell you..." 

"Will you not?" 

A crooked smile split the lieutenant's face, all pointed teeth and bile, and something vicious shone behind his eyes, something cruel, something unhinged; Maedhros bit back a gasp of fright as the lieutenant seized him by the wrist, as his hand and arm were wrenched upwards, and slammed down across the bench at a hideous angle. His elbow felt as though it might dislocate from its socket as the lieutenant pinned him there, and though he writhed within the Maia's grip his exertions swiftly proved futile. It was all that he could do not to cry out as the lieutenant brought the knife to bear, as its wicked point was pushed against the tip of his index finger left splayed upon the bench.

He squirmed in discomfort as the knife burrowed deeper, blood welled beneath its piercing tip and a ragged breath clotted in his throat as the blade slid beneath his fingernail, as deeper and deeper it tunnelled into his flesh. That horrific, unnerving sensation throbbed up his arm, and he groaned and twisted within the lieutenant's grip as truly it became excruciating, yet the Maia held him cruelly tight. Slowly, _slowly_ , with such gluttonous languor the knife was tilted, his nail blanched and skin grew taut and pain screeched up his arm and -

"From where come the weapons that support your forces?"     

A defiant grunt of pain was all that came from behind Maedhros' gritted teeth; the lieutenant's smile grew cold, and harder still the knife pushed within him, pressure tightened and flesh howled until suddenly something tore, nail splintered. And in a gout of blood his nail was peeled back, shards of cartilage were stripped away from their moorings with a muffled scream of pain. 

Hard Maedhros panted; raw, oozing flesh glistened in the ruddy light and desperately he tried not to look at it, he tried not to feel the agony left lancing up his arm. No, instead he felt only the lieutenant's grip upon him shift, and the tip of the knife poised upon his middle finger. 

"Where do they come from, Maitimo?" 

An anguished whine punched past Maedhros' lips as he hesitated for just a moment too long. The lieutenant drove the knife mercilessly below his fingernail, and in one ruinous twist prized it clean from the nailbed. Blood spattered across the bench as desperately Maedhros bucked, his legs scrabbled beneath him where they lay twisted, he pulled and twisted and struggled but the Maia's grip upon him was as iron, and it was as the lieutenant pushed the blade against his ring finger that something inside of him seemed to buckle. 

But it was not weakness that he succumbed to, not yet; something vicious bubbled up inside of him in turn. Despair kindled to hatred and gladly he let it guide him, because he was sharper now, he was quicker, there were things that the lieutenant tried to hide and he knew them, he _knew_. And maybe he could make the lieutenant hurt, just for a moment, maybe all of this pain could be rebounded upon its maker, and against the agony that pounded through his fingers he snarled, "I know. _I know what he does to you..._ " 

The temperature within the room seemed to plummet; the embers of the forge quailed, black puissance crawled upon the walls and how brittle was the lieutenant's smile then. 

"What those... what those things said..." Maedhros growled; from where he was pinned he twisted, he spat the words up into the lieutenant's face. "I know that he hurts you..."  

A terrible silence rent the air; blind adrenaline pumped in Maedhros' veins, until at last the lieutenant spoke. 

"You think that you know pain, elfling?" His voice was _awful_ ; cold and distant and such power crawled beneath it that Maedhros instinctively shied away. " _You know nothing of the world_." 

And how Maedhros screamed as the knife skewered through his ring finger; the nail splintered from his flesh in a dark splatter of blood and mercilessly the lieutenant held him down. 

"You," the Maia spat, "you are nothing but a spoiled, stupid little child who thinks that one taste of war might make him a king. I have walked this earth since before your worthless kind was conceived, I have served my lord since before the first of your people crawled from the mud to claim himself a conqueror. What, in your craven dreams, do you think that you could fathom of me?" 

A strangled squeak of protest was all that Maedhros could muster; near rigid with pain he flinched and sweated as the Maia forced his ruined hand to splay, as he drove the knife into his little finger.

 _"From where comes your source of arms?"_

"Please," Maedhros gasped; the onslaught of pain shook all sense from his mind, it cast him reeling, "please, please, I c-can't..." 

Agony shrieked up his arm as roughly the lieutenant shook him, as the knife burrowed further under his nail like a maggot devouring flesh. 

"I... I c-can't..." Maedhros spluttered. "Please, please I... I already t-told you..." 

" _You did not tell me enough_." 

Again the knife tilted, with such excruciating slowness flesh was torn apart, and desperately Maedhros shrieked, "No! No, please... please, I already t- " 

A growl of frustration shattered the lieutenant's cold visage; he threw Maedhros' arm aside in disdain and with one tremendous blow he clouted Maedhros across the face, and left him gasping upon the floor. 

Blood trickled from Maedhros' nose, already he could feel his cheek beginning to swell with the trauma of such force, yet he did not dare to reach for it, he did not dare hold himself. Pain bled from his mangled fingers, terror clawed at his heart and as the last glimmers of bravery died in his veins he simply curled himself up as best as he could at the base of the bench; like a dumb, frightened animal he trembled there as a surge of black puissance crackled over him, before passing away. 

Past his crumpled form the lieutenant stalked, and grievously he shied away as abruptly the Maia turned, as the bloodied knife flicked perilously close to his face. A terrible moment of contemplation hung in the air, thick and malevolent; the lieutenant pondered him with lascivious eyes, yet then a knock sounded upon the door, and at the smirk that curled the Maia's lip then Maedhros truly quailed.

Dread knotted in his stomach as the lieutenant strode to the door, as it was drawn open, and oh what dark, strangling horror drowned him as he glimpsed the leering uruks clustered within its aperture. 

"Ah, Dagmur," the lieutenant said archly. "You _are_ prompt." 

A low murmur of laughter rippled through the group but Maedhros scarcely heard them; transfixed with despair he stared as the uruk captain lumbered through the door, all swaggering muscle and jeering eyes, as four hulking uruk guards fanned out behind him, each as foul as the next. Into a loose semicircle they gathered themselves as the lieutenant gently closed the door behind them, before coolly leaning himself against a wall, his arms folded across his chest. His cruel eyes lingered upon the uruk company; they spat and leered behind their leader, and as at last Dagmur stepped forward something evil tolled in Maedhros' heart, a premonition of terror mingled with memory, and how he blanched as down upon him Dagmur drawled, "Hello, little piggy."

" _No_..." A throttled whisper choked out from his lungs, horror smashed through his heart as memory crashed down upon him; bruised and bloodied and bound to that vile stake the orcs had left him, in those confused, flurried, despairing days when still the stars had shone, when still the skies embraced him. Blind and mute they left him, they had bound him, mocked him, stolen him, one had kicked his legs apart and its intent speared horror into his heart.

"Remember us?" Dagmur leered, and horrorstruck Maedhros stared back at him; the flared, ugly nostrils, the thick fangs protruding over fleshy lips. "Oh, we remember you..."

Dread cramped in Maedhros' stomach as over him the uruk stood, as it looked to its fellows with its piggish eyes set ablaze, and roared, "'Bout time we got what was owed us, lads!"

It was all that Maedhros could do not to scream as the uruks surged forward with a yell; brute hands clamped down upon him and dragged him upwards, fingers twisted through his hair and heedless of his struggles they yanked him atop the bench, with bruising force they shoved him to his knees. Pain slammed through his thigh as carelessly they jostled him, the rattle of chains sounded above him and for a moment everything dissolved; hairy flesh and the reek of leather enveloped him like a maelstrom. The searing pull upon his scalp dragged his head and chest downwards, they forced him to bend at the waist even as his hands were pulled up behind him; the uruks' grip slid upon the blood that trickled down his injured arm, and viciously he struggled as he felt the cold bite of manacles encircle his wrists. 

A grunt of pain lurched from him as suddenly the uruks stepped back, one hauled upon a winch set into the shadows of a wall; chains tautened and inch by unstoppable inch his hands were drawn upwards, tipping him forward upon his knees until he could scarcely balance. Already his shoulders protested the strain of such a cruel strappado, yet far worse was the flush of humiliation that mottled over his cheeks as a sallow-skinned uruk grabbed the leash still dangling from his collar and secured it to a fastening below the benchtop, wrenching his throat cruelly forwards. For all too well he sensed just how exposed he was; the arch of his straining back was all too tight, the curve of his hips and arse was far too inviting; he knew it, and he _hated_ it, and the depth of his helplessness terrified him.

"There now," Dagmur rumbled, "ain't that better?"

Dark, throaty laughter bounced about the chamber as the uruks secured his bonds; their mirth was echoed in the lieutenant's smile as he leaned serenely against the opposing wall, watching. 

Thick fingers poked at Maedhros' sides, blunted teeth snapped before his eyes, the chatter and rumble of ugly voices hammered in his ears and desperately he twisted, he fought against his bonds with every ounce of strength left to him; it felt as though he would rub his wrists raw with the force of his contortions, but the iron of Angband showed him no pity. Blood inched down his skin as his mangled fingers twitched, and he swallowed a whimper of horror as a bristle-haired uruk bent forwards, and with a roughened tongue licked the blood from his arm. 

Such vindictive humour smattered through the group at the uruk's growl of approval, with red-stained teeth it ran its hands over Maedhros' back, and all too swiftly others joined it; hands groped over his ribs, his arse, his thighs, and how he despised it. He hissed and spat as they touched him, as they tapped and prodded at the metal brace upon his leg. 

"What's this sorry piece of metal, eh?" 

His hiss of outrage collapsed into a cry of pain as discomfort pounded through his thigh, desperately he tried to gather himself as more carefully then the uruks fondled him, petted him, all heavy and rough and domineering. Yet that cry was as the first cracks within the dam that herald the fury of the floodwaters; something slapped him upon the arse and no longer could he restrain the whimper of horror that bubbled up inside of him. 

Beneath the scant protection of his kilt those hands slid, and a gulp knotted in his throat. For pain was one thing, an evil, yes, but he could withstand it, he could be strong, but _this_... this was an atrocity beyond endurance. The jerk of fabric about his hips was too much to bear; with one savage yank the cloth was sloughed away, his nakedness beat down upon him in his humiliation and forced a cry from his lips. 

"You like that, little pig?" an uruk jeered, yet Maedhros scarcely heard it. For he knew now, he _knew_ to what fate the lieutenant had condemned him; it had happened before, in gasping breaths and bruising force it had happened before, and the terror of it ate him away. It was inescapable, it was inevitable; orcish breath billowed across his back and it was so much _worse_ than pain. It seemed as though all of the warmth was drained from the world as the lieutenant looked mercilessly upon him, and about him the uruks grinned. 

The brush of fingers across his hips drew breath from him, near frantic with terror he spluttered, "N-no..." The air seemed all wrong and hissing and compressed through his chest already aching with strain, it throbbed in his throat as he gasped, "No, p-please don't..." 

"Shhh," an uruk gurgled; hands stroked almost soothingly over the contorted muscles of his back, over the knobbed ridges of scars that patterned across his spine. "Shhh now. You'll be getting to like us, won't you?" 

Fingers worked in between his thighs and instinctively he bucked, he jerked his hips away as that pressure stroked at him and how the uruk's sniggers brought a shameful flush to his cheeks. 

"Oh," the uruk drawled, "you're going to be good for us, aren't you?"

Desperately Maedhros recoiled, he twisted and yanked in such futile protest, and as he struggled his eyes fell upon the lieutenant still leaning against the wall, and wild hope ignited in his heart. Every word felt drenched in bile yet still he spoke them, sour and stinging over his tongue he forced them out. 

"Please," he breathed, "please, Mai - my lord, please d-don't..." 

A choke of horror strangled the breath from his lungs as an uruk groped between his thighs; its brutish fingers glanced down his flaccid length and how that touch appalled him, it made him want to be sick. 

"Oh, look at 'im squirm!" 

" _Please_ ," Maedhros squeaked; his voice cracked with the awfulness of it all as again the uruk touched him, as its vile fingers stroked slowly up his length. "P-please, my lord..." Tears of humiliation shimmered in his eyes as another pair of hands kneaded over his arse, as so lewdly they pushed his thighs apart. "My lord, p-please... I... I'll t-tell you..." 

Piteously he whined as slickened fingers ran down the crease of his arse, a sob shook from his stomach as those fingers brushed over his entrance; shame and loathing and such unfathomable terror clenched in his heart, the uruks' touch was _vile_ , and with that final indignity how cruelly his pride buckled, a sob retched up in his throat and with it he crumbled away. 

"P-please," he spluttered; he looked to the lieutenant with red-rimmed eyes and truly he begged for clemency. "Please, please, don't... don't let them... I'll tell you... I'll tell you whatever you want, please..." 

A thin, haughty smile flickered over the lieutenant's lips, he did not even bother to rouse himself from his lean against the wall as slickly he replied, "That is wonderful to hear, Maitimo. And given time, I am sure that you will." 

A horrified whimper broke from him as with languid ease the lieutenant straightened, and meandered towards the door. _He was going to leave_ ; panic slammed through Maedhros' veins, he was going to leave, he was going to leave him all alone with them, all alone and helpless and hurting and _he couldn't do that_ , he couldn't do that; abject terror forced a choke from his lips. 

"No!" His chest ached as desperately he spluttered, he twisted and writhed within his bonds. "No, no, no, please! Please, my lord! Please, come back..."   

A smile of such nauseating geniality crowned the Maia's gaze; framed in the ruddy light he stood as something unearthly, and almost sorrowfully he said, "Farewell, Maitimo." 

The slam of the door in the Maia's wake was as a death-knell in Maedhros' heart; hope was expunged in one tremendous cramp of terror, but still he cried out, still he begged, " _No_! No! Please, my lord..." 

"Why you beggin' for him, slave?" an uruk growled; rough hands yanked his head up by the hair, and narrow crimson eyes squinted down at him. "The lieutenant don't give a shit about you. Why should 'e? You're nothing but a worthless, disobedient little maggot!"

"Crying for him," another uruk snarled; fingers brushed again over the exposed flesh of his entrance and a wet gulp of horror clotted in his throat. "Begging for him. What is our lieutenant to you?"

"You want to suck his cock, whore?" 

Two thick fingers breached him, without preparation or mercy they thrust to the hilt inside of him; and desperately, instinctively he gagged as the sensation of it smashed through him, pain and pressure and searing heat came boiling up like a seismic wave through his stomach and set him reeling. And such shameful tears glimmered in his eyes as all the uruks' scorn came toppling down around him; they jeered and called and taunted and how vile were those fingers that violated him, that now twisted slightly inside of him; pain scorched at his insides and helplessly he cried out. 

"You want to moan for him, slave?" an uruk leered. 

"Wants to show 'im what a good little slave 'e can be, ain't that right?"

"Take his cock down nice and deep, eh?"

"Or maybe he wants to fuck 'im? Do you, slave? You filth! Wouldn't be the first to think he could buy himself a favour!" 

Pain throbbed through Maedhros' innards as the uruk's fingers withdrew from him, only to push hard back in; a gasp lurched from his lips and he screwed his eyes shut as a hand knotted through his hair, as nails clasped about his jaw and forced his face upwards.

"You want to fuck him, little slut?" an uruk spat down into his face; the cruel pinch of nails into his swollen cheek forced a squeak of refusal from his throat.

"No?" another jeered. "Liar!" 

"Nar, nar, Korrhuk," the first smiled; a grotesque grimace of stunted, squashed fangs. "Maybe he's right... He just wants the lieutenant to fuck _him_ , is all!"  

Raucous laughter exploded throughout the room; degradation burned in Maedhros' heart as once more the fingers thrust into him and a sob of despair bubbled over his lips as from within the pack Dagmur leaned forward, as he said, "What I heard, boys, the lieutenant already did!"   

Shame clawed through Maedhros' blood; pain and horror dragged at him and he thought that he might drown in the mockery that cascaded down around him. 

"He get sick of you that fast, slave?"

"Must be a crap lay, eh?" 

"Maybe 'e screamed too much?" 

"Maybe the lieutenant fucked 'im bloody! Cor, I'd've loved to 've seen that!" 

"What's it matter? He's all ours now, boys! Why don't we teach him something?" 

"Go on, Ofluk, let's make him _scream_!"

A cry of anguish gurgled up in his throat as harder still the uruk rammed its fingers inside of him; pain cramped through his guts as far more rhythmically now it began to thrust them in and out of him, slowly at first but then more quickly, strongly, roughly. Sensitive flesh burned with such an unrelenting assault; thick fingers pinched at his nipples and desperately he grunted, discomfort speckled across his chest and even as he gasped and flinched away he felt the invading fingers at his rear pull from him, and blank horror seized at his heart as he knew what was going to come. 

The insidious clink of belt buckles pulled undone shivered in his ears, drying blood congealed upon his arm, and shame gagged in his heart as with brutal purpose the uruk shoved his legs wider, as with one choking spasm of agony it pushed itself inside of him; a sob of utter humiliation dredged up over his lips, and he no longer had the will to stifle it. 

Slowly the uruk began to fuck him; raw, abused flesh was tortured anew as each roll of its hips sent the breath skidding from his lungs. It sent lonely, helpless tears lurching down his cheeks. He should have just obeyed them, something broken within him cried, he should have just obeyed, he should have just done what the lieutenant had asked him to; he was so _stupid_ , so stupid and empty and arrogant to think that he could defy them, he was nothing more than a simpering little slave, and as the uruk's hands gripped about his hips, as its length split him open, as despairing tears rolled down his cheeks, maybe now he believed them

The press of metal against his lips sent fresh panic skewering through his heart; horror lent strength to his contortion as he twisted his head aside as Dagmur reached for him. Yet pain jerked through his bound shoulders, a violent thrust sent him rocking forwards with a cry, and with piteous ease Dagmur grappled him as he struggled. The uruk's thumb stabbed into the corner of his lips and desperately he gritted his teeth against it, pain shrieked through his skull but still he would resist it, until another ugly, hurting thrust up inside of him set him gasping for breath, and then the uruk acted. 

A hollow ring of metal Dagmur shoved behind his teeth, and even as he spat and retched against it in his furore he felt the gag buckled tight behind his head, he pushed at it with his tongue and he wrenched with his jaw, yet it was to no avail, _it was never to any avail_. The uruk grabbed him by the chin and forced his face upwards, it reached for the clasp of its hairy breeches, and dismay settled like a leaden weight in Maedhros' stomach. 

"Nice and easy, slave," Dagmur growled; the clasp came undone and a keen of horror shook from Maedhros' throat as the orc's erect length sprang free, fingers twisted through his hair and forced his head forwards. The uruk guided itself through the gag and it was all that Maedhros could do not to sob as its foul, knobbled length scraped across his tongue. Fathomless was the degradation that swallowed him then: the other uruk's thrusts up inside of him pushed him onto Dagmur's length, the captain's hand rested heavily upon the back of his head and prevented his lifting it, saliva dripped from his lips and his arms ached in their bondage and how the uruks' laughed at his suffering; every movement pushed him from one disgrace unto the next, and with them he came apart.

For how long, for how excruciatingly long they continued Maedhros could not conceive, and he did not dare to imagine. In one senseless, endless rotation of abuse they used him, taunted him, hurt him, fucked him, each took their turn with such vindictive lust. Saliva mingled with seed to drip from his jaw left aching with strain, the straps cut bloodied furrows into the corners of his lips as again and again they pulled his head down; tremors of exhaustion rippled through his body as one after the other they rutted into him, viscous seed streaked down his thighs and smears of red shone amid its whiteness. It painted him in nothing but shame. Bruises clustered over his hips where rough hands gripped, a hulking uruk slammed itself up inside of him with gut-wrenching force and openly he sobbed; hot, hysterical tears trickled down his cheeks even as another shoved itself past his teeth, as the force of it set him retching.

And suddenly through the ache of the suffering that gripped him something brighter flared; pain sliced across the contorted flesh of his shoulder blade left wrenched up behind him, and weakly he cried out at this fresh agony. 

"Oi," something growled, and for a moment the assault upon him paused; the uruk buried its length up inside of him and sent waves of pressure radiating out through his guts. "Mairon-khur said no cuts!" 

" _Agh_ ," came the snarled reply, thick and malevolent above him. "What's one more scar on this maggot?" 

To that there was scant reply; again and again they sliced into his shoulder, they flayed skin away from muscle in shredded strips of flesh, yet Maedhros scarcely felt it. For it seemed that all of that pain simply drained away, it drowned out in the torpor that leached through him, that dragged at muscle and bone alike; stress and terror and hurt beyond endurance melded into one, and together they took their toll. 

His back and thighs trembled as yet another uruk thrust into him, spent seed dribbled down his thighs with the force of its motion, and everything began to blur; the rhythm of violation rocked him, the seeping exhaustion of muscles strained far beyond their limits lulled him, stone and flesh grew grainy before his eyes, grey and devoid of life. And for a time perhaps he slipped away, consciousness fled him and hid, it hid itself somewhere that even the vast malevolence of Angband could not reach. 

But he could not linger there forever. No, a vicious slap across his cheek jerked him back to reality; to the ugly grunting of an uruk buried to the hilt inside of him, to the wet, humiliating warmth of seed spurted deep into his guts, to the gaping emptiness of the uruk's withdrawal, the squelch of bleeding flesh and abused muscles ripped open and left unable to close. 

Saliva drooled from his parted lips and blindly he saw it puddle below him, pinkish froth clustered upon his lips, and deliriously he moaned as the door of the cell thudded open, as from him the uruks gradually stepped back. Something slid through the uruks' press and desperately he screwed his eyes shut; it would be something new, another of them maybe, or something worse, _something worse,_ some fresh evil come to torment him. 

Terror bleated in his heart as hands took him by the cheek, as his aching head was lifted; the buckles of the gag slipped loose and against all hope at last he roused himself, he dared a glimpse upwards. Blond hair flickered before his eyes, and the ring was drawn from his mouth, and utter despair cramped in his stomach.

But beneath that despair something darker turned; that slender thread of hope exploded within his heart, it became something potent, something clawing and harsh and driving, and desperately he looked upon his captor, he looked upon the sole being in Angband who in that moment might show him clemency, and the weight of his shame broke him. The lieutenant's hand stroked over his cheeks in soothing little circles, desolate humiliation rolled in his heart, and hoarsely, helplessly he croaked, "Please, p-please my lord, I'm s-sorry, I'm so... _I'm so sorry_ , _please_..."

A sharp blow to his cheek deadened the words upon his lips, a half-hysterical little noise shrivelled in his throat, and coldly the lieutenant said, "You will speak when you are spoken to, slave. Do you understand?"

With painful fervour Maedhros nodded; stress quivered through his limbs with even that simple movement, but pitilessly the Maia looked down upon him. 

"From where comes your weaponry?" the lieutenant asked, and for a moment Maedhros paused, though whether some shred of rebellion yet squeaked out its protest or whether simply to draw breath into his lungs he could not say. But somehow that moment drew too long, an uruk took one menacing step forward, and fear smashed the words from his lips. 

"We brought them," he gasped, misery dredged up over his tongue. "Upon... upon the ships, in the holds. H-horses, livestock, and weapons. S-swords, spears, we... we had forged them in Formenos before... before..." 

A choke of dismay stilled the words in his throat, but quickly the lieutenant snapped, "That is all?"

"Y-yes, my lord," Maedhros spluttered, pain thrummed through his body and how desperately he wished that this just might be over, _he just wanted it to end_ , he just wanted to go away and hide, hide somewhere that they could never find him, and never touch him again. "We had made them, in... in Valinórë. We took them with us, b-but... but there are craftsmen among us, among our company. We... we would make more..." 

"That is sense enough," the lieutenant said coldly. "What purpose had you upon these shores?" 

"I t-told you," Maedhros gulped, his mangled fingers twitched within their bonds as nerves were strangled, as bolts of pain lanced erratically down his arms. "The Oath... the Oath that we swore, it d-drives us. We must... we must fulfil it; we must reclaim what was... s-stolen..." 

A curl of displeasure turned the lieutenant's lips, and hurriedly Maedhros said, "We... we wanted to find somewhere safe, somewhere for... for our people. Somewhere they can thrive, free of... of tyranny." 

"You come to colonise?" 

"Y-yes, my lord," Maedhros rasped; stress blurred his vision, it faded out into smudges of ashen grey; a spasm of weakness floated through his body and too slow came reflexes of balance, too slow, too slow. Within his bonds he swayed, his head lolled forwards despite the collar that bound him fast, and it was only the lieutenant's hand that twisted sharply through his hair that kept him from toppling. "We... we cannot go back..."        

"Your sentries, slave," the lieutenant said; it was such a struggle to understand his words, they all seemed to meld, to moil, to fade... "Your sentries. Where have they ridden?" 

The meaty finger of an uruk prodded into his ribs and helplessly he gasped; tears trickled down his cheeks and nausea rolled in his stomach, it took all of his strength simply to whimper out the words. "S-south. Along the coasts, and.. and inland, across the mountains. Some, some to the east too, and some north, some..." 

"These we have welcomed already," the lieutenant smirked, yet as once more Maedhros weakened, as muscles slackened and sanity reeled, quickly he demanded, "With whom, with what peoples, have you had contact?" 

"None..." Maedhros breathed; every word seemed barbed; stinging and wrong, unwillingly wrenched up his throat. "Not... not y-yet. My father, my father he spoke of Elwë, and... and Nowë... the eldest of our kin. M-maybe we could find them, we thought... we - we could ally with them..." 

"And will your brothers pursue this course in your stead?" 

"I d-... I d-don't know," Maedhros gurgled; pain washed through him and it was so hard to focus, it was so hard... "I th-think so..." 

"You _think_ so?" The lieutenant's voice was awful, cruel and cold and full of disdain, and with it Maedhros crumbled. 

" _I d-don't know, my lord_ ," he sobbed; hysteria gripped him, shook him, ripped him apart; all of that stress and pain and guilt came tumbling up his throat in one overwhelming rush, and to it he succumbed. Incoherent little gasps of breath clicked out of his throat, helpless, paralyzing tears racked through his chest, and there at the end of everything truly he surrendered; he cared no more for bravery, for nobility, _he just wanted this to end_. 

And like a needle dashed through a fraying knot at last the lieutenant relented; the grip upon Maedhros' hair gentled slightly, and softly the Maia murmured, "Very good, slave. Perhaps now you understand what it means to obey, and what should come if you fail in your purpose. But I have one last task for you, one chance for you to prove your loyalty. _Open your mouth_."     

He could have resisted, he could have, maybe; he could have summoned the last ounce of strength within his blood and for a few moments maybe he could have fought, he could have proved to himself that he wasn't a coward, he wasn't weak, he wasn't everything that they said that he was. But what would be the point? What, truly, would be the purpose of such action; they would only hurt him again, they would make him bleed until the fight ebbed from him, until there was nothing left of him, and then they would do it anyway, they would do it just to hear him scream. No, no it was better this way, it was better just to obey; sorrow welled up in his throat as he closed his eyes, as he opened his mouth, as he obeyed his master just liked a good little slave; fabric shifted and the uruks chuckled and he just prayed that it would be over quickly.

The lieutenant was not so rough with him, he thought, not so rough; the Maia's length pressed down his throat and he did not even have the strength to gag as he pushed too far. Weak convulsions trembled through his chest, saliva spilled from his lips as slowly the lieutenant fucked into him, he swirled his tongue as best as he could to just make it go faster, to just make it be over; misery etched into his bones and bound him to numbness. Over and over again the lieutenant pressed himself down his throat; his jaw ached and pain blurred and when at last the Maia grunted, when the hot spill of seed poured across his tongue there was nothing left in him but grief. 

With a clatter of chains the manacles about his wrists came undone but he could not feel them, muscles pushed far beyond endurance failed him and forwards he toppled, his torso collapsed down onto the bench and twisted there he lay, a ruined, crippled thing. And though he knew that he must be hurting somehow it was not so; pain sunk into numbness, into shock, the lieutenant's seed was daubed across his lips and he just felt hollow, like they had carved something from him that would never be full again, that left him bleeding, that left him raw. 

He did not know how they moved him, he did not care how they touched him; doors swung open and corridors wheeled, and at last a cell hovered before his eyes, familiar grey stones stood silently by in the wan light, and such relief swelled in his heart then that he nearly choked on it. And what whimpering, hysterical little noises broke from him as the lieutenant lowered him down to his hay he did not know; it prickled upon his skin and how the warmth of it enveloped him, he curled into it like a womb. Through blood-scabbed fingers he clutched it, he held it, he just sobbed his misery into it as the lieutenant draped a blanket over his crumpled, bloodied form. 

And the last thing that he knew was the rattle of the bolt closing in the lock of his door; his stones watched over him, and his straw lifted him, it carried him away from all of that pain and into blank unconsciousness, into the only mercy that Angband knew how to give.

 

* * *

_So it really has been 10,000 years since this was last updated, but I hope the wait was worth it!! A huge thank you to anyone who's stuck with this series and my glacial updating speed since the beginning, and if you're new here then... welcome to whatever Hell this is :P But I assure you, there is more to come! Any questions, comments or concerns are always very welcome either here or on tumblr ([markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask)) and I shall endeavour to answer all things with uncharacteristic speed and zeal! Until the next time, theeventualwinner x_

 

 


	9. Vermin

_Scritch, scritch, scritch;_ through gloom something hissed, it grazed through torpor and; _scritch;_ it poked, it prodded, then faded, down down down into blackness it sank until _scritch, ssssssscritch;_ it broke. An intruder into a slumbering world, it wandered without heed of what it might wake, and from dark dreams Maedhros stirred.

 _Scritch;_ the sound tore at him, thin and shrill and unfamiliar; something danced across his skin and a burst of anxious adrenaline fizzed through his veins. And somehow everything lurched, he was pulled back to himself and simultaneously flung apart; something tugged within his chest, with ceaseless fervour his _fëa_ pulled against the scar tissue that bound it, and he longed for the oblivion where it sought to flee. But he could not follow its desires, he could not - _scritch;_ something scraped over the palm of his hand and blood-crusted fingers twitched in nervous response, his heartbeat pulsed within his throat, but how he feared what it innervated. For he dared not open his eyes, he dared not see what he knew to be true; scabs flaked from his fingertips to expose ugly, raw nailbeds, pain throbbed through his hips but it must be a dream, he thought, a nightmare, a ghost. 

But worse was the cramp in his guts, the sticky, wet warmth between his thighs; it could not be true, _it could not be true._ It wasn't him, reality came blurred and malleable through a skein of shock; hands crushed down on him but they didn't touch him, flesh was torn and wetted and ruined but it wasn't him; it wasn't his voice that had cried out in anguish, it wasn't his body that they had fouled, it wasn't his lips that had betrayed himself and his kin for a fleeting snatch at mercy. 

It could not be him, that helpless, sullied thing. Such unspeakable grief welled up in his bones. It could not be him.  

Hay matted dark and rancid beneath his aching body, his hand rested upon the cool stones beside it, and beneath his palm they groaned. Some subterranean turmoil rent at Angband's foundations, it set the stones aquiver, moaning in voices warped with earth and ore. Yet through their colossal, incomprehensible agony something louder sounded, something far closer rattled, metal slid within metal and _scritch scritch scritch,_ a motion-blur of sound, and from it all he recoiled.   

The scaffold skewered awkwardly into his thigh as he huddled there, it cast a ghastly silhouette beneath the thin blanket that was draped over him, that he clutched tightly into his chest, and there for a moment he found solace. It was a flimsy shield, but it was better than nothing, and for how long he lingered there he did not know; every heartbeat set rills of pain licking through his body, until at last he gathered himself. The stones below him were still solid, they were still real, he was still real, bloodied and breaking maybe but he was still real, and through the film of grime that coated him he dared to open his eyes. 

Figures loomed over him and desperately he started; they were too close, too sudden, and he jerked away in shock, but as that unearthly, visceral, _familiar_ pressure slammed through the brand upon his chest, horror clotted in his throat. No, he thought, he clamoured, he prayed, upon bloodied fingers and trembling, useless legs he dragged himself backwards; _no no no, not now, not now;_ blind panic screamed in his veins and lent strength to his contortions. But to no avail, it was never to any avail, his back pressed up against the wall behind him and the links of chain at his throat chattered with his movement in laughter.

 _No, no, no,_ a keen of anguish mewled out of his throat as the intruders stepped forward, stinging tears blurred over his eyes as that pressure seemed to redouble within his chest, it thudded in his bones, and desperately he tried to hold onto himself as it felt like he would be hammered apart. Yet with what cold dispassion did Angband's mighty lords behold him; the lieutenant's eyes were full of bile, and the blinding wash of light from the Moringotto's crown only bathed him in his wretchedness.

The light, that holy light, it crawled like lice upon his skin; traitor, traitor, it cried, it marked him, you worthless helpless craven vile hurting little _traitor_ ; it sliced the truth of him into himself and below its blade he crumbled. For where pride might once have steeled him now there was only rust; the uruks' fingers had dug into his hips, they had run over his tongue; them, the lieutenant, all; they had violated him, mutilated him, and maybe where once he could have come back to himself something had changed. In those awful, aching moments they had broken him, they had remade him wrong, they had stolen something from him and now he was not the same as he was before.   

A horrible, clicking breath rattled from his lungs as suddenly the lieutenant stepped forward, near paralysed with fright he could only gape as the blanket that shrouded him was ripped away. It tore through his fingers, the motion of it snatched at his shoulder latticed with knife-wounds, and in one awful spasm he crumpled in upon himself as that tiny measure of protection was stripped from him. Desperately he hunched forward, as the lieutenant cast the blanket aside with a grimace of distaste he tried to cover himself, his fingers knitted over his groin left exposed between the awkward curl of his legs. He dared not look to where his fingertips rested against his thighs, over stained, sticky skin. 

"As I have said, my lord," the lieutenant spoke coldly, "there is not much left of him." 

Hatefully, fearfully he glanced up at the lords above him; a glimmer of protest rallied and readied and died upon his lips as they stood before him, terrible in majesty, and he cowered at their feet. There was something drying into his hair, a lank strand fell before his eyes and left a white, creamy smear over his face. It only painted him in his disgrace, and as shame welled in his heart, he bowed his head with the weight of it.

 _"Noldorin whelps are ever apt to lies,"_ the Moringotto sneered. _"Ever they speak with gilded tongues, a mask for greed, or self-serving treachery. How then may you vouch for him, Mairon?"_

Something squelched between his fingers and he could not look at it, blood and seed and violence, and he dared not move, he dared not say anything, he just wished that they would go away, that they would leave him alone. He prayed that his silence might buy him that tiny freedom.

"I do not believe that he has been unfaithful, my lord," the lieutenant replied. "Dagmur and his soldiers were quite... _persuasive_ , in ensuring his complicity upon my return." 

A deep frown crossed the Moringotto's brows, the pressure in the room so very slowly seemed to thicken until Maedhros felt that his bones might split, joints would twist and pop and shatter into pieces by the malevolence that glowered down upon him. And how violently he flinched as suddenly the lieutenant lunged for him; fingers knotted through his hair and dragged him forwards, a terrified bleat of discomfort stammered over his lips as the Maia hauled him up to his knees. Naked and squalid, he swayed there before those dreadful lords, he hunkered down into himself like a trapped beast before the slaughter, and it was only as the lieutenant's grip forced his head up that he managed to raise his face.

The scaffold upon his thigh throbbed as the Maia held him there, burning eyes appraised him and the victory in the Moringotto's sneer turned his stomach to water. What tiny thing in him that might once have been strong eroded, with hands and lips and weeping flesh they had unmade him, and though he searched for the courage that he had once thought innate, it had deserted him. Even the Oath that he had clung to spurned him, it was filled with ashes; _c_ _aurë hya raxë, lá mandë imma;_ _c_ _aurë,_ _c_ _aurë,_ _c_ _aurë._ Dread poisoned his blood, and for that he was doomed.

A whimper clotted in his throat as tighter still the lieutenant held him, as to the Moringotto the Maia said, "Let your doubt be assuaged, my lord, from the mouth of the slave himself, if it should please you. Therefore, you may judge if he speaks truly." 

At the lord's nod, the lieutenant turned, and down into Maedhros' face he said, "In my heart I do not doubt the sincerity of your answers, for such is my trust in my subjects, that they should speak with loyalty when questioned." The oiliness in the Maia's tone was nauseating, and Maedhros trembled in his grip. "Yet my lord demands satisfaction that your simpering little tongue did not stray from the truth in its eagerness. Therefore, I will ask you but once: when questioned, did you answer me faithfully?" 

A heartbeat passed, and then another, and another; fear sewed the reply into Maedhros' throat. Yet as he saw the displeasure beginning to crease the lieutenant's mouth, as pain throbbed through the brand upon his chest, something unlocked within him, panic punched the words up from his guts and desperately he breathed, "Yes! Yes, my lord..." 

 _"You can say no more of your kin's motives?"_ the Moringotto demanded, his golden eyes narrowed and cunning. _"You can say no more of what forces they command, nor what powers might come to their aid?"_

Such was the fell countenance of the Moringotto's face that Maedhros quailed beneath him, he shivered and spluttered in the lieutenant's grip, and it was only with a cruel wrench upon his hair that at last he spluttered, "No, my lord! I don't - I d-don't know, my lord..." 

 _"You do not know?"_  

"No! N-no..." he gasped. Fear scrambled him, it made his words slippery, treacherous, and desperately he tried to master himself, he looked up at the lieutenant with imploring eyes and breathed, "Please... p-please, my lord... I told you everything. I told you everything, _everything_ , please d-don't..." 

Mania tore at his voice, fervour shook the words from him, and as the lieutenant nodded sharply down at him he subsided with a choke. Yet deeper still etched the fear into his stomach as he glimpsed the disapproving set of the Moringotto's lip. 

"You doubt his obedience still, my lord?" the Maia asked. "Very well." Fingers knotted all the more tightly into Maedhros' scalp, they wrenched his head upwards, and down into his face the lieutenant sneered, "Open your mouth." 

Worry clenched in Maedhros' innards, and for a moment he hesitated, until the fingers in his hair tensed, and hard as iron the lieutenant spat, " _Open your mouth_." 

Terror bubbled in his stomach; _resist_ , _resist_ , something forlorn within him cried, but it was not enough, it was not enough, and slowly, shakily, his lips parted. A tiny bleat of horror gagged out of his throat as suddenly the lieutenant thrust two fingers into his mouth, he spluttered in shock as they slid over his tongue, and though instinct seared within him he dared not bite down, he dared not try to pull away. No, the paralysing dread of what would happen should he disobey crippled him, it bound him with leaden shame as with such degrading purpose the lieutenant's fingers moved, they slid over his tongue, in and out, in and out, with such slick, rhythmical motion that it curdled the blood within his veins. 

"Very good," the Maia murmured, and so desperately Maedhros wanted to disappear, to be rid of him, to be rid of them both and all of their games and their lies and their humiliations. He so wanted to close his eyes, but he could not, and he would not; it would only make it worse, that sick, sensual glide of flesh upon flesh. 

He could only kneel there and endure as the Moringotto sneered, " _Pathetic little wretch. Would that your father could see you now, a wastrel heir upon his knees."_

Grief cramped in Maedhros' guts, tears prickled behind his eyes as still the lieutenant held him, as those fingers moved with such awful, insatiable rhythm. 

 _"Your efforts are commendable, Mairon,"_ the Moringotto purred, and at the lord's nod the lieutenant's fingers slid free of him, slicked in looping threads of saliva. And how he cringed as the Maia reached forward then, as those slimy fingers wiped across his cheek. _"I am satisfied indeed."_

At that the lieutenant smirked, and still he gripped into Maedhros' hair as he asked, "What is to be done with him now, my lord? To what fate would you consign him?"

 _"Find some befitting purpose for him,"_ the Moringotto replied, and such was the derision in his voice that Maedhros blenched. _"Or leave him chained here to rot, I care little. I have few uses for broken things, save as petty amusements."_

"As you wish, my lord," the Maia nodded, and with a flick of his hand relinquished his grip upon Maedhros' hair. 

Without further word or backwards glance the lords departed then, leaving Maedhros slumped there upon his knees. It was only as the bolt slid home with a reassuring clunk into its lock that finally he dared to breathe, breathe in the silence of the stones and the mouldering hay, and the loneliness that leached into his bones.   

 

* * *

 

 _Scritch;_ the silence that fell was shattered, though whether minutes or hours later Maedhros could not know. _Scritch, scritch;_ something moved in his static cell and worriedly he glanced about. There was nothing, he thought, he must have imagined it, there was nothing there but hay and chains and grey, featureless stone, _scritch;_ trepidation curled in his heart as it sounded again, close and yet indistinct. It could not be real, there was _nothing there_ , and he held himself painfully still as he listened for the slightest shuffle of movement. Yet for a while there came no sound, and slowly he relaxed once more, although warily. For he had not forgotten the things that could move in Angband's shadows, things that were hungry, things with teeth; _yesssssssssssss_ , they had drooled, stinking of earth and ravenous hate, _meat, meat, we remember how to bite._ Ever and again he would glance to the corners of his cell, to the waning edges of the ceaseless light that shone from the rune carved high into the wall, he would stare into the light there until it blurred, but ever there was nothing. 

Perhaps he had simply imagined it, perhaps the fortress had driven him mad, perhaps - _scritch._ His fingers whitened as he gripped into his knees, he shrank back to huddle against the wall and all the more tightly he drew himself up beneath his blanket. Near rigid with focus he listened, he watched, his eyes strained to encompass the cell until - there! 

From within the thickest thatch of hay left staling by the adjacent wall something moved; _scritch, scritch,_ strands of lank grass fluttered with impossible motion and Maedhros' heart pounded within his chest. In erratic little jerks the hay moved, no, it did not move, it was _pushed,_ pushed up by something underneath it; worry gnawed at his bones as he sat there, watching. For that clump of hay had moved, he had seen it, but it could not move, not unless something was there, something fierce, something dark, some new demon sent to haunt him, some - 

A tiny, quivering nose poked out from beneath the hay, and his breath stopped in his lungs. Grey and squeaking, a furred body followed; _scritch, scritch, scritch_ ; the hay rustled with its motions, and utterly transfixed Maedhros stared at it. A mouse, recognition flooded through him, it was only a mouse, yet for a moment doubt seized him. It should not be; it could not be, and yet it was. 

Whiskers tremored in the cool air, and suddenly the mouse darted out from beneath the hay. Tiny feet pattered upon the stones, the staling bedding scratched and rustled with its motion, and grievously Maedhros shied away from it. 

At the abruptness of his movement the mouse squeaked, it bolted back beneath the hay and disappeared from sight, and though his heart still lurched within his chest, swiftly he mastered himself. It had run from him, it had fled like a prey animal should, so perhaps it was all that it seemed, just a mouse swallowed by Angband's vastness. But he had to know, he had to be sure; aching limbs unfolded and with clumsy, sore fingers he hunted for it amid the straw. Lank grass sifted through his hands and it came away empty; slowly and methodically he traced where he thought the mouse's path would be, but with each clot of bedding turned, each knot of hay shifted, each bare patch of stone left staring up at him, so too the worry tightened in his stomach. It had to be there, somewhere, it had to; panic glimmered in his veins because he hadn't imagined it, he _hadn't_ , it was real, _it had to be real_. 

His hands shook as he ripped through the hay, worry tipped into fear and feverishly he hunted, _it had to be there_ , a thin whine of distress clotted in his throat until it seemed that he might choke. And at last, _at last_ , he overturned a thick twist of matted straw and below it something pale flashed against the stone, a shrill little noise howled in his ears but he did not hear it, he was dumb but for the relief that pounded through his heart. For he could see it now, it was there, it was real; a hunched little body streaked away from him along the base of the wall, until it found itself corralled into the far corner of the cell. Hemmed in by stone it hesitated, it scratched and pawed at the unforgiving slate as slowly he approached it, he shuffled over to it upon his knees, and then it lay still. It hunkered down into itself, its ashen fur ruffled, its ears and whiskers pulled back tight against its skull, and as he gazed down upon it, suddenly he softened.

For as he looked upon it, pity stirred in his heart. He could almost smell the fear in it, he could see the flutter of its ribs; something slimy twisted in his guts as he looked upon that cowering, panting thing and how desperately he wanted to be rid of that feeling. He would comfort it, he thought, he would show it mercy, show it that he was not a threat, he hovered in an awkward kneel some small distance from it and slowly extended his hand towards it. 

"Hush," he crooned; it was barely a broken syllable of air scraped out of his throat, and he watched as the mouse stiffened below him. Its beady eyes glinted in a palsy of terror, and, "hush," he murmured to it, more softly this time, he inched his fingers nearer, and nearer, and nearer, until suddenly the mouse bolted. It sped away from him, racing along the border of the cell until it came to the small culvert studded into the wall, and squeezed itself away through a tiny crack at its edge. 

Numbly then Maedhros knelt there; links of chain fell away from his throat like dull little stars as the cell cooled around him, and hatefully he stared along their run. For as taut adrenaline unwound, as it seeped unspent through his veins and was lost, beneath it there was only torpor. His stomach and pelvis ached, his thigh itched as the scaffold pulled within his flesh; a fleeting ghost of hunger growled amid abused muscles and wearily he wished that it would be silent. Carefully, gingerly, he crawled back to his hay, he fluffed up the limp straw into something resembling a mattress and he laid himself down upon it. There was nothing left to him, nothing; he clutched his hurt to his chest like an infant, and it ate him away. Alone there in that impassive cell he suffered, he would be left to suffer, and nobody would come, nobody would care, nobody would ever care for such a piteous, ruined thing. Broken, traitor, usurper, kinslayer: all of these things he was, and more, the lieutenant had told him that, and as pain throbbed through his innards, as metal shackled him, as wretchedness crumbled around him, maybe then he truly came to believe it. 

For how long they left him there he could not give a name, there was no passage of time in that eternal place. Sometimes he would sleep, and wake, and wait, and dream in growing terror of what did not come, of what might come, of what would come; guilt fell within him like detritus from the ocean's surface, a deadfall of mangled flesh and fears. Sometimes they fed him; a bolt-rattle prelude, the snarling menace of his captors who left plates or bowls of food and a small cup of water alongside it. They were rarely the same, the orcs that would come to him: a tall guard-captain, a squat gaol-master, a glowering, piggish kitchenhand, there was routine in their motions but they were rarely the same, and in his immutable world, those differences scratched at his nerves. 

Sometimes they would spit at him, and sometimes they would not. Sometimes they would growl at him to move, sometimes they would beat him out of the way, sometimes they would leave him bruised, and sometimes they would not. Uncertainty gnawed at his bones, it corroded him. 

They stood over him and it was so much harder to face them than once it had been; they snapped at him, taunted him, they pushed him and pulled him and commanded him and it was so much harder to resist than it had been before. _Obey_ , something craven within him bleated, obey, and where before its argument was wanting maybe now it was enough, it was enough. Because even as bruises faded, as his leg slowly regained its haleness, as muscles healed and skin bled no more, still their hands haunted him. Their words, their laughter, the look on the lieutenant's face as he thrust himself into his mouth; it was not the same anymore, _it was not the same_. That visceral violence terrified him, it left its injuries carved deeper than flesh, and they would not close. 

Sometimes the mouse came; behind weary, worn fingers he peeped at it as a twitching, furry nose pushed into his cell, as shimmering eyes and pink petal-like ears popped into view behind it. Curled upon his hay he might watch it scurry, sitting listless by the wall he might watch it gather up a strand or two of hay and scamper back into its hole with its prize clasped tightly between its teeth. He smiled at that, just a little, a ghost of what might have been amusement touched his lips left bruised from some casual act of violence. More and more the mouse would venture near to him, wherever he sat or lay, it would sniff at him curiously and then turn away, carry out its clandestine scavenging and then disappear once again. He did not mind its comings and goings now, it did not frighten him as it used to, no, somehow that tiny contact contented him. It was a kindness in his degradation. It helped him to still feel like he was real. 

Once even, the mouse hurried to him with purpose, it ran to him where he sat slowly chewing through a bowl of mealy, sour porridge. By his toes it hovered, it reared upon its hind legs and sniffed longingly at the air, whiskers atwitch; it looked so hopefully up at him that something in him softened. A stray oat not yet dissolved into the sediment of his meal he picked out; raw, empty nailbeds gaped in the light but with a twist of revulsion he ignored them, he placed the oat upon his outstretched palm and he offered it to the mouse. A wary moment passed, but the little creature was bold, bolder than he; it laid one tiny paw upon his palm as it leaned to snatch the oat between its teeth. By his toes then it sat nibbling, and beside it he slowly turned back to his food, until away it scurried again, to the culvert, and then it was gone. 

He was sad to see it leave. It was silly, he thought, but somehow it was nice to share that one small oat, even with a mouse. Somehow, he did not feel so lonely when it was there.

Sometimes things happened that had not happened before. His captors might come, they would slop his food out on the floor and clatter the bowl down behind it, and leave him to scrabble amongst the grit for a meal. They might laugh at him, jeer at him; _snaga_ , they called, they prodded with ugly hands and leering faces at the scaffold that held him, they would tug on the chain that leashed him until the collar slammed into his throat, they would do it just to see him splutter, to see his cheeks redden, to leave him gasping upon the floor. Sometimes it would happen, and sometimes not, and as the rattle of the bolt within the lock sounded once more Maedhros squeezed his eyes shut. 

Upon his filthy bed he tried to steel himself, he tried to make himself ready, to be passive and empty and obedient just like they wanted, until they went away, but this time it was different, and dismay chilled his blood. For the earth-loam scent of stewed mushrooms still lingered in the air from where he had gulped them down, there was still a half-cup of water left beside his sticky bowl: they could not have come to feed him again, not so soon. Why then had they come, what more did they want? The answer to that question terrified him, and upon his hay he curled himself up, for it would be like it was before, imagined terrors ran rampant through his veins because surely they would come, they would take him away and they would hurt him, they would show him his kin captured and broken and thrown down in chains all because of him, and it would be his fault when they would hold him down, when they would - 

At the huge, clawed hand that clasped about the door Maedhros started, he scrambled up into a sitting position as fast as his injured leg would allow and fearfully he stared at the creatures that entered. For as that hand prised the door open with a rush of heat it ignited, greasy flames licked over its skin, a blast of scorching air singed over Maedhros' face as a Valarauka paced into his cell, and another behind it, and from them Maedhros cowered. Tongues of flame poured like molten tresses from their horned heads, coal-black skin was cracked with rivulets of magma like livid flames amid basalt rock; the air about them shimmered with heat as they ducked through the doorframe. Their cloven feet left ash-smudges upon the stones, and Maedhros could only gape as they rose before him, titanic and monstrous. 

Glowing eyes narrowed, and with such unnatural stillness the Valaraukar paused, they looked down upon him in their fathomless judgement and Maedhros withered beneath them. Heat blazed from their skin, it crackled the hay by his toes, and as those moments wore on it was only as the cell became truly stifling, as sweat dripped from his forehead that at last he moved. He broke that unearthly calm to shake the sweat from his eyes; cinders snapped from a Valarauka's horns, and it was then that one nearest to him spoke. 

 **"That is him,"** it said; and how Maedhros shivered at its voice. It was like the grinding of stones amid a mountain's cataclysm; it shook through organs. **"This one, this - _nehtavurr_ , _nar_ , this one. He was there. It was him." **    

Dread stole through Maedhros' heart as little gouts of flame burst along the Valarauka's arms, flames crackled upon its horns, and it seemed as though the very air might boil when the other Balrog rumbled. In some guttural, hoarse language that Maedhros could not understand it spoke to its companion, and at its words the first nodded; fresh, violent flames licked down its back, they split from its arms, and from it Maedhros recoiled. 

 **"He was there,"** it growled, teeth black as obsidian dripped in a red, bloody maw. " **This worm, he was there, in the slaughter. You, slave... You, your father, your baseborn kin..."** Heat pulsed from the Valarauka's skin, rage smouldered in its eyes. **"You killed him, my captain, my - ... You killed him, there, under the stars. You butchered him."**

A hideous grimace twisted the Balrog's lips, sweat inched down Maedhros' spine, but all of the heat trapped in that claustrophobic cell could not warm the chill that crept through his guts. Because it was true, he knew it, he remembered it, when through those confused, frantic, bloodstained moments under the silence of the starry skies they had hewn through their enemies. Newly come to these lands and thirsty, _angry_ , with tempered swords and hatred they had slain those demons that first besieged them. Whether by his father's sword or Turko's bow or Moryo's axe they had been put to their death, and he had thought it just, because it was war, he had told himself. His kin and himself, they were assailed, they acted in defence, in righteous rage in hostile lands and he was just a - 

**_"Murderer."_ **

The Valarauka's snarl curdled the blood within his veins, the sheer _hatred_ in it paralysed him, it struck him dumb; he could do nothing but watch in blank horror as it raised its hand, as it clouted him across the face. Cinders burst from its palm as the blow hammered through his skull, the force of it sent him sprawling, blurring, falling; he slammed awkwardly down upon his side and for one awful moment he lay there stunned. His skin blistered with the heat of that blow, pain erupted across his cheek left purpling with trauma, his collar caught with such jarring constriction across his windpipe and for a moment he couldn't breathe, _he couldn't breathe_ , until suddenly he gasped. Shock flooded through his veins and spurred him to motion; in one clumsy scramble he tried to right himself, he tried to crawl away, and the chain at his throat tinkled in such awful laughter as pain exploded across his back. 

A whip danced before his eyes, a flame-licked, thaumaturgic thing, it left glowing after-images seared across his retinas; his hands slipped upon the hay and as agony unfurled again across his back he collapsed beneath it. 

 **_"Murderer!"_ ** ****

A growl of rage, a crack, a scream; the whip snapped up his side where he lay and scoured a burning wheal across his ribs. It sent the air shrieking out of his lungs with the impact of it, he twisted in upon himself in one grotesque contortion and still he tried to move, to crawl away. Upon shaking arms he hauled himself up, he struggled and kicked with his lame, crippled leg but how he _howled_ as the whip fell upon him again, as it laid a bubbling, bleeding wound open across his spine. 

"P-please..." he gasped, desperately, _desperately_ he tried to move, to drag himself away; the Valaraukar watched with pitiless eyes and the chain and collar about his throat tethered him and his scaffolded leg would not hold him, the metal dragged upon the floor. It was only as a cloven foot smashed into his stomach that maybe then he found the momentum, the horrific force of that kick near ruptured organs, the breath whistled out of his lungs as he crumpled back against the wall. 

A wash of bile scoured his throat, blood dripped from his lips; again the Balrog kicked him hard below the sternum and helplessly he lay there, his hands scrabbled in to hold himself, to hold his stomach that felt caved in by that blow, to hold in the nausea that roiled in his guts. Tears blurred over his eyes, pain scudded through him but somehow still he found the strength to raise his arm, to reach out, to shield himself, against all hope perhaps he reached for clemency. "No, p-please..." 

A vicious whip-strike snaked up his outstretched arm, it lashed in part over his ribs and his cheek and ripped a howl of anguish from his lungs. Blood frothed upon his lips as again the Valarauka struck him, low across his pelvis, it sent him jack-knifing into himself as agony bloomed across his skin. Raw and weeping and blistering; again and again and again that dread whip fell, those clawed hands, those monstrous feet kicked him, struck him, shook him; it was all that he could do to shield his head with his arms as best as he could as cruelty after senseless cruelty was done to him. The whip sliced across his ribs and maybe he cried out, a hideous blow crunched down upon his arm and maybe he prayed, agony erupted through his chest and how piteously he sobbed beneath that towering pillar of rage. 

For ever as the Balrog struck him it would growl, it would smile, it would speak in its black tongue and the words would thrum with such vengeful delight until it was set ablaze in its wrath. The other would only watch, it stood solidly by the door and pitilessly it watched as the whip crashed down upon his arms, as it seared across his ribs already welted and bleeding. It did not move, it did not speak, its fiery eyes were unfathomable as agony was dealt upon agony, as flesh boiling red with trauma was broken by oozing, half-cauterized whip-wheals, as he was split apart in raw crevasses of flesh. 

Hysterically, helplessly he sobbed as the Valarauka's fury finally subsided, red drooled from his lips with each gasping splutter of his chest; like some mangled thing torn from an unclean womb it left him twitching upon the floor, sluiced in blood and gross discolourations of flesh. With a final, triumphant crack of its whip across his scaffolded thigh it withdrew, it leered down upon him and spat a gobbet of saliva over his face. 

He could only shudder as that foul liquid oozed down his cheek and arms, stress and pain and exhaustion rendered him dumb; there was nothing but the wet, clicking inhalations of his breath and the screech of agony as the Valaraukar stalked from the room. Through swollen, red-rimmed eyes he watched as the door slammed shut in their wake, and the bolt slid home in the lock, and the air slowly began to cool, and they left him alone to decay.     

Senseless, senseless; the world stripped away in dull reels of pain and left him stranded there, a grey and nebulous thing in a colossal, hungry void. Like a dead thing he hung there, pain swaddled him and he could but float, hanging listless in space and time as currents far beyond his control buffeted him this way and that. They snaked around him, through him, they twisted and pulled with little spearing hooks and into them he came undone. There was nothing left; delirium wandered through _fëa_ and body alike and helplessly, gratefully, he followed. 

How long, how long had it been and how long would it be, until the first time, since the next time. Until the next violence might come yesterday, or the previous betrayal be tomorrow, and still it would be worse, it would be worse, it would only _ever_ be worse. For through the turgid meander of his dreams still he could feel them; the brand upon his chest pulsed and stung, orcish voices sounded around him and hunger cramped in his belly, water sluiced down his throat and porridge was spooned past cracked, broken lips, but too roughly, too roughly, he coughed and he spat and how he keened in his misery, he curled up and he closed his eyes in sockets too swollen to fully open and he just wanted to drift away. 

But then soon came hands upon him, gentle hands, they caressed him, they held him, they bathed away the worst of the rusted, stinking blood and held a bowl of broth to his lips. They petted him as he cried, they whispered to him in a language too arcane to understand, but soon there were other words, soft words, sweet words, "th-thank you, my lord," he whispered, and then lips were on his, lips that tasted of iron, and "good, Maitimo, good," they purred. And maybe there was other skin too, maybe he opened his mouth for his lord and flesh pressed down his throat and tears rolled down his cheeks but, "shhhh, Maitimo, there you are," the words, the hands stroking over bruised, aching flesh were so, so soft, and underneath them he fell away. How many times, how many times, he opened his mouth and those hands did not hurt him, they soothed him, they held him, whiteness spilled from his lips and desperately he swallowed it down. "Thank you, my lord," he croaked, and maybe once he opened his body too, when he was not too sore, when it was kinder to just obey, those gentle hands pressed him down and he followed, he followed where they led and maybe it was tender, maybe it was not so much of a violation. Once, twice, how many times; did it matter, _did it matter_ , he just felt hollow, flesh pushed into yielding flesh and maybe it hurt him but maybe it did not, it was always gentle, those hands held him and helped him and devoured him. 

Sometimes he was left alone, and he ached in those times. But through those unending days when flesh and bone and desire seemed laid bare and warped somehow he kept a secret, he kept a little selfish thing all to himself. For often when those hands left him, when sore and trembling he might slump down upon his hay, he might gather the raggedy blanket about himself, often then something came to him. With bright, curious eyes the mouse would wander from its hidden lair, it might share what stray scrap of food might be left or it might simply be with him, it might sit upon his hand or nestle within the warm hay in the hollow of his chest. It was a secret, it was his secret, and sometimes it tore at him. 

"Go away," he hissed to it once; it pattered and squeaked before him as he lay there shivering, as agony lanced down his spine, as a skein of scabbed flesh tore to expose glistening muscle beneath. "Go away," he breathed, he closed his eyes in sockets like bloodied charcoal. "Just leave me alone..."

But more often he would welcome it, with clumsy, stiff fingers he would stroke it as it sat within his palm. He would tell it things sometimes, stories half remembered from a time when the skies rolled open above him, from a past that did not quite seem real. And though it could not understand him, though it simply groomed its fur and twitched its delicate whiskers as it watched him, somehow he felt better for the telling. But sometimes it made him sad, that tiny, vivid thing.

"Why are you here?" he murmured to it once, his voice caught low in his throat. "You could be anywhere but here." 

But it did not understand him, it did not understand, it just huddled close to him in the crook of his chest and settled there amid the hay, and Maedhros closed his eyes in grief.   

Upon a time, those gentle hands abandoned him; all his myriad wounds were freshly sealed in tight, glossy lines of scar tissue when the door thudded open, and two immense uruks stood within its aperture. With alarming purpose they strode to him, they knocked aside his feeble protest and as one gripped tightly to the leash trailing from his throat, the other jammed a thick, sallow finger against the scaffold that still clamped about his leg. A noise of complaint simmered in his throat as again the uruk prodded him, it did not hurt so much as feel distinctly uncomfortable; with bland disinterest the uruk spread his legs and squinted down at where metal sank into a pink pucker of skin along his inner thigh. It poked gently about the tender skin there, and nervously Maedhros watched it, he grimaced and hissed as it touched over something sore, but at last the uruk seemed satisfied, and it let him go without pain. But that absence could not blunt the anxiety that skewered through his heart as the uruk nodded to its partner, a hugely muscled creature with a shock of white hair slicked back from its skull, who with a barked word of puissance broke his chain from its anchorage upon the wall.   

In guttural tones they bade him stand; clawed fingers gripped into his biceps and they all but dragged him to his feet. Slowly, slowly he found his balance, muscles worn thin with disuse flexed and the uruks released him, and as the white-haired thaumaturge tugged upon the leash, miserably he stumbled forwards. Before the door they halted him; the sallow skinned uruk fumbled within a pouch dangling from its belt, and from it drew a length of cloth, a roughspun kilt which it knotted tightly about his waist.

He flinched as its hands brushed over his hips, a tiny, manic bleat of horror wobbled in his heart, but swiftly he stifled it; the uruks did not touch him like that, they simply dressed him, and tugged once more upon the chain. The leash pulled taut in the hefty fist of the thaumaturge, and he was helpless but to follow, he was pulled from his cell and out into the corridor beyond, and the sallow skinned uruk paced close behind him. 

The gloom of the corridors was oppressive; dread leached all sense of courage from Maedhros' heart as they led him through the labyrinthine sprawl of Angband's dungeons. The cobblestones were foreign under his feet, more than once he stumbled and nearly fell, and it was only the grasping hand of the uruk behind that righted him. The awkwardness of the scaffold and the weakness of his own muscles appalled him; his legs trembled upon unfamiliar stairs, his back still veiled in tender skeins of skin ached past cells yawning open into darkness. On and on, and through an immense chamber the uruks steered him; to his side bars thrice his height reared up towards a cavernous ceiling, a gargantuan cage was studded into the wall of the room, and his nose crinkled as the cloying stench of musk flooded through his lungs. It was thick, animal; the darkness beyond those bars was utterly impenetrable save for a few renegade sounds; the horrible, wet crunch of bone, and chewing.  

Past it he was led, and without protest he followed; he shrank himself down between the uruks' bulk and tried to keep pace with their punishing stride as through corridor after disorienting corridor they prowled, until at last something rose before them. Into a gated, steel-mesh cage the uruks pushed him, they crammed in close behind, and at the pull of a great lever set into the wall suddenly they lurched upwards, the metal grate below him swayed and he gripped hard into the side of the cage for balance. In juddering little hops they ascended, for fifty-three heartbeats, he counted nervously, until with a mechanical whine they shuddered to a halt; the uruks swung open a latticed stile and pulled him out of the elevator cage, and into an airy, marble-clad corridor.  

There was little defining about the decor; cleanly polished tiles in charcoal and black hues gleamed as he limped over them, but from between his captors he peered out, and something tugged at him. There was some sense of familiarity about those austere walls, his brows crossed into an uneasy frown as he glanced about himself, and it was only as they swung about the corridor to face a great carved archway that truly disquiet began to bite. Beneath it he was pulled, worry and metal and the memories of pain nagged at him, and as they spilled out into a large chamber beyond, his heart sank within his chest. For all too pungently did astringent herbs prickle in his nostrils, an orc scurried by with lengths of bandages trailing from its hands, and he knew it, he _knew_ where he was: the infirmary. He must have balked slightly, he must have hesitated as that insistent pressure at his collar grew stronger, for swiftly the uruks gripped him by the arms, they propelled him step by reluctant step through the infirmary wings, and soon enough into a small cell. 

A bed was set into the corner of the room, a narrow medical cot with thick leather restraints looped about its metal frame, and from it Maedhros looked away. Bleary memories turned in his stomach, and quickly he shifted his gaze, but standing before the table upon the opposite side of the room something was there, something was waiting for him, clad in ochre-matted hair and a bristling bandoleer an orc squinted up at him, and as he met those familiar reddened eyes worry clenched in his innards. Styrrak, he knew the name too well but he dared not speak it, he just stood there in silence as the orc watched him, as the uruks stood attentively at his sides, until after a few moments Styrrak spoke. 

The gnarled orc addressed the uruks in a snarling tongue, and gruffly they replied, their words crude and incomprehensible to Maedhros' ears. Again Styrrak spoke, little vials of glass and metal glinted in its bandoleer, and again the uruks answered, until after a short moment the orc nodded, and a small sigh rumbled in its throat. Its demeanour was placid, yet Maedhros stiffened as he watched it turn to gather something from the table behind, and as he glimpsed the syringe half-concealed within the orc's hand, his breath caught in his throat. They were going to hurt him, something dark and desperate and visceral within him pounded, panic flared in his chest, _they were going to hurt him again_ , he took one horrified, reflexive step backwards but with what cruel swiftness did the uruk guards grasp him then. 

"Come, Maitimo," Styrrak said, and ever the orc's voice was soft, was encouraging, as if speaking to a frightened child. "Come, now, this will be over soon." 

A tiny noise of refusal wormed its way out of his throat, and in the uruks' grip he struggled, but with what pitiful ease did the sallow skinned guard wrest his right arm out from his side; its fingers bit into bruised, discoloured skin as it forced his arm to extend, exposing the crook of his elbow and raising the veins there with his exertions. And how dreadfully he knew what would be coming; he bucked, he twisted in their grip, or he thought that he did, but with terrible ease the uruks held him, Styrrak advanced and there was only his squeak of dismay as that syringe slipped beneath his skin, as whatever foul thing within its barrel was smoothly injected into his veins. It was easier not to fight, he thought, maybe, maybe it would be like with the lieutenant, tender and sore and it would only kill him a little bit; a wave of dizziness washed through him and in the uruks' grip he staggered. Soft pulses of warmth radiated up through him, and suddenly his knees would not hold him, his heartbeat sounded all loud and distorted in his ears as his head lolled, and with unfocused eyes he watched as Styrrak turned. The orc said something, and with it he buckled, his feet slipped upon the marble and suddenly he fell; an uruk swung him up into its arms and as his eyes rolled, as consciousness dissolved, then there was nothing.      

 

* * *

  

Pain; his first sensation was that of pain, and it sickened him. It hounded him, it stalked him, it exhausted him; it would not leave him alone. 

Something burned across his thigh; tight, hot lines of pain seemed to pierce through his femur as wearily he came back to himself. And how he wished that he would never again have to wake as grim reality assembled itself; his eyes blinked open to the grey, aseptic walls of an infirmary cell, full of dancing torch-shadows and the bitter smell of iodine. Stale saliva clotted on his tongue and with effort he swallowed it down, he cringed and coughed as it slid down his throat, and with mounting dismay he found that movement was restricted. For he could feel the tautness of the leash that bound him, it slipped from the ring upon his collar to some unseen fastening upon the bedframe; he could feel the leather restraints pinning his wrists by his sides, and his ankles further down, they pressed him into the mattress and no matter how he twisted they would not relinquish their hold. 

A thin, woollen blanket was draped over him and he could only wriggle as it itched upon his bare stomach; his hair flicked suddenly across his face as his head rolled upon the pillow, and in shock he stared at what of it he could see. It was shorter now, much shorter; they had cropped it back to hang just below his chin, and it shone like burnished copper in the ruddy light. They must have bathed him, he supposed, he must have been filthy enough for even orcs to revile him; empty nailbeds glared at him from his injured hand but at least his fingers were clean, and the skin there was pink and healthy. He stared at himself numbly, his thighs shifted beneath the blanket and his gaze slid to his leg, to its smooth delineation beneath the blanket; that hateful scaffold once punctured through him was gone. Whatever ugliness there was left was hidden from him, but he could feel its emptiness, the unfamiliar press of the back of his thigh upon the mattress, the soft scratch of the blanket upon him. It was gone, he was rid of it, but as he stared at himself there somehow the relief that welled within him did not quite flow; it bottled up within his lungs and rotted there, something reeled open within his chest and there was only loss within it, there was only longing. 

Longing for a home that was stolen from him, he closed his eyes as he remembered, as he thought that he remembered before all of the evils that had befallen his kin; the trees were dappled with golden light, fountains poured clear and cool, and all was peaceful, all was content, and how he ached to belong there again. To walk with his family again, his mother and his father and all of his brothers, just to be with them, to smile and laugh and argue and jest with them, he ached for that simple happiness, and ever it was denied him. Surely they must hate him now, he thought, and that thought turned to ashes in his heart. But even though they would scorn him, spurn him, _traitor_ , _traitor_ , even though he in all of his cravenness had hurt them all so much, how he missed them. His father's passion, his mother's thoughtful smile, Káno's voice resplendent in song and Turko's jokes that were so poor that they were almost painful, and Moryo's temper and Curvo's ambition and the twins' wildness; he missed them so much that it near shattered his ribs, it near caved in his chest with the force of the thing that bucked inside of him. And how sorry he was, he had hurt them, he had failed them, and he was scared of them: they would _hate_ him, despise him, and even if somehow he managed to crawl his way back to them then how could he ever stand among them again, how could he ever look them in the eye, knowing what he had done. Knowing that he had betrayed them, and knowing that he had done it selfishly. 

He would beg them, he would beg for their forgiveness, as in those tempestuous nights before, when flames had licked and his father's eyes were filled with madness; he had turned aside then, and though his voice was lost to the pitiless waves he had begged his kin's forgiveness, he had begged for Finno's absolution even as he forsook him. He had begged that Finno might understand, that Finno... Finno... Something clawed the insides of his ribs, something hot and clamouring and devastating in its sorrow; it ached so much that he would have cut it out of his skin just to be rid of it, and he simply lay there as it gripped him, as he tried to grapple it back down.  

It was so much easier not to feel. 

Dismally he lay there, and for a while perhaps he drifted away into reverie, a bleached and sterile thing. But he could not drift for long, no, Angband's malice gripped him tightly still, and its talons were of iron. For soon enough the two uruks trudged back into his cell, they loomed over him as he tried to shrink away into the mattress, and it was only as Styrrak appeared at the foot of his bed that some measure of reason returned to him. 

"Come, Maitimo," the orc said, its blunted teeth squashed into a smile. "Come, come, up! Up you must stand now, you have languished too long."

The uruks unfastened the straps that held him; one clasped his leash in its burly hand as the other forced him to raise at the shoulders; it swung him up into a sitting position and Maedhros hissed as pain flared through his thigh. 

"Good, good," Styrrak crooned, it peeled the blankets back from Maedhros' waist, and dully he stared down at himself. Beneath the ragged fringe of a loincloth gross clots of flesh puckered upon his thigh, they seethed upon his leg in angry whorls of scabbed, swollen tissue, and revulsion turned in Maedhros' heart as he looked upon them. But for their ugliness the skin about them was unblemished and hale, and the wounds were stitched closed with a neat line of black thread, then dusted over with a rust-orange powder. It was cleanly done, and he supposed that he should be grateful, but numbly he sat there staring, and Styrrak watched him, until at last the orc harrumphed, and said, "Alright, up. Up, now, we must see you stand. We must see."

He did not try to fight as the uruks pulled him to his feet, the leash tautened and the sallow-skinned uruk gripped him hard by the bicep, and a grimace contorted his face as he took a measure of his weight upon his unsupported thigh. Pain throbbed through his leg in hammering, radiating waves, but although it was uncomfortable it was not unbearable; he gritted his teeth as slowly it subsided into a manageable ache, and somehow he held himself there, somehow he stood. The pale uruk carefully released him, and though he shifted the majority of his weight onto his uninjured leg, still the lamed one supported him, and though breathing hard with discomfort, he stood there unaided. 

"Good, hmmm, very good," Styrrak muttered; the orc watched the muscles tensing and trembling beneath his skin with a craftsman's eye, and then nodded to the white-haired uruk who still held upon his leash. "Forward, a little. Slowly."      

The uruk tugged upon his collar and reluctantly he followed, he stepped out gingerly with his injured leg, and then with his sound, and though he wobbled as his thigh fully took his weight through the shuffle of his stride, though he gasped with the pain of it, still it was manageable, and he found that he stepped to a halt once more. 

"Excellent," Styrrak intoned, and at its gesture the uruk led him in a short circuit about the cell. It was not elegant, it was not comfortable or quick or gainly, but Maedhros was determined, and doggedly he followed where the uruk set him marching. 

"Good, good," Styrrak nodded, the orc watched his every movement with rapt attention, "It is stable, yes? And the skin does not pull? Yes, very good," it muttered, until eventually it subsided into a language that Maedhros did not understand. Thrice around the room the uruk led him, until at last Styrrak gestured for a halt, and like an obedient little slave Maedhros came to rest just behind the uruk's massive shoulder.  

"I am quite contented," Styrrak said, and a deep hint of pride gleamed in its voice. "The fracture is well, I deem, and within weeks should heal fully. This is wonderful news, Maitimo! You must be relieved to hear, _nar_?" 

For a moment Maedhros did not reply, the orc's words dredged up nothing but vague, entropic misery inside of him, but as the silence dragged on swiftly he stoppered it, timidly he nodded, and croaked, "Yes, my - ... yes, Styrrak."

A smile creased the orc's craggy features, it was almost warm; it made Maedhros feel ill. And helplessly he stood there as with an approving huff Styrrak turned to the uruks, as it commanded, "Faluv, escort Maitimo back to his cell. Do not be rough with him, _nar_ , and take rest if he needs it. Take the elevator in the west wing, you have my permission. I will not have hurt that which I have worked so long to heal." 

The white-haired uruk who gripped Maedhros' leash nodded its assent, and Styrrak continued, "Kifthur, send word to Tahruk of the Foundries, and to Istglir in the Deeping Spire. They must prepare to accept another, hmm, although not until the proper time has passed. Then take word to Mairon-khur, for I must speak with him."

 _Mairon_ ; that name, _that name_ , it set him reeling; gentle hands caressed him and pulled him and treacherous lips, treacherous words enmeshed him. "Good boy, Maitimo," the lieutenant had crooned, "good boy," like he was a dog, like he was nothing but a beast, he wanted to claw those words from his skin, to crumple them up and push them away and hide somewhere that the lieutenant could never touch him again. 

"No," he whispered, it was a ghost upon his lips, a horrified exhalation of breath. _"No..."_  

"Hush, Maitimo," Styrrak said, and it was all that Maedhros could do not to visibly flinch away as the orc laid a clawed hand gently upon his arm. "It will all be right. It will be, do not fret." 

A gulp of dismay quivered in his throat, and hard he swallowed it down. There would be no solace here, only respite, only refrain, until the next anguish, until the next humiliation; it terrified him and it angered him and the futility of it destroyed him. He just bowed his head in despair as the uruk tugged upon his leash, and blankly he followed it from the infirmary. Step by sore, halting step they retraced their path taken days before; the judder of the elevator grated horribly within Maedhros' thigh, but grimly he bore it, and he followed where he was led. Back to his cell the uruk walked him, to his hay and his stones and his suffering, and tethering his collar back to a fresh length of chain he found curled and awaiting him, it left him there in silence. 

How long was it, how long in hollowness and the fleeting ghosts of pain; he slept, and waited, and ate, and sometimes walked in little circles around his cell just to stretch his healing leg, and then he was left to wait again, and emptiness gnawed at him. Sometimes the little mouse would creep to him, a moment of relief tinged his sickening heart as he saw its nose poke out of its lair, and it ran to him, it nestled amid the hay or within his palm, and he would ache with it. But sometimes the mouse left him; the ceaseless light dragged on in bleached misery and he would worry, he chewed his lips and he pulled at the chain, he counted the stones and did another thousand little numbing things to just make the time end, to will it back to him, to silence the horrible, horrible panic that slowly tightened in his belly. And ever it would come, its whiskered nose would push back into his cell and such relief would fill him, elate him, a fleeting smile cracked over his lips as it scurried to him, as he held it close to his chest and felt its heartbeat fluttering through his fingers.      

Because sometimes when it was gone, sometimes when it left him with a squeak of alarm and the frantic scamper of feet, sometimes other things would happen, things stepped out of nightmares, out of shadows. Those gentle hands, the lieutenant's cunning eyes, sometimes they would come back to him, and they were not so gentle anymore. And maybe the first time he had tried to fight back, some tiny vestige of pride had arisen in him and he had tried to refuse; he had done something stupid, something so, _so_ stupid. The lieutenant had made him sorry then; red frothed over his lips as with a crackling swell of puissance his innards boiled, blood drooled down his chest and agony shivered in his veins, and the lieutenant's every snarling thrust up inside of him had smashed a sob from his lungs. Shaking and ruined the lieutenant had left him, and empty; so achingly, horribly empty; the lieutenant came back and this time he did not fight, he could scarcely bring himself to breathe as upon his knees his back crunched up against the wall, as the lieutenant hauled his face up by the leash, as he opened his mouth and closed his eyes in defeat. 

He didn't bleed that time, the lieutenant didn't make him bleed, whether with knives or thaumaturgy or gutting words, and so the next time he tried to be good; he hated it, he despised it, he cursed himself for his cowardice with every vile name that he knew, but with such desperate fervour he tried to obey. It was so much easier just to be numb, to silence the squalls of emotion and drift away, to just open his body and accept it. It was so much easier to just try to smile when the lieutenant told him that he had been good. To try not to cry every time that the lieutenant left. 

The mouse crept to him, and his hips ached, and his tears wetted little furrows into its fur. 

 

* * *

 

The air amid the blast furnaces was stifling; every grinding shovel of coal or heaving pump of the bellows belched forth nothing but scorching air, and a flurry of burning cinders. The crunch of spades into the coal-heaps was limned in the clink of chains, by the whistling crack of an uruk's whip and scattered yelps of pain, and warily Maedhros glanced about. The enormity of the subterranean chamber dwarfed him; the gaping, greedy furnaces set like swollen mouths into its sides burned cherry-red in the gloom, and anxiously Maedhros laboured before them. 

Twenty-seven times, it was twenty-seven times since the first time, since the orcs strode through the door of his cell and yanked him to his feet, they had prodded him and pushed him and though still he limped with the discomfort of his healing leg, they had declared him fit enough for labour. Fettered at the wrists, upon his leash still trailing humiliatingly from his collar they marched him through Angband's winding corridors until his legs ached, down and down and down they went, until the stench of raw earth engulfed him, and the neat cobblestones below his feet fell away to rough-shod passages carved out of the living rock. Past coal-pits spiralling away into fathomless depths, past ravenous iron beasts of industry that hammered and bit at the earth, that rumbled in their wrath, past forges, klaxons, seething rock; past all of this the orcs forced him, and the enormity of it terrified him. He shied away from all of the colours, all of the fury.

He was healed enough to work now, they had told him; every pair of able limbs was needed for the effort, and numbly he had stood there, he had stared at the huge, swarthy uruks who commandeered the furnace pits. He was to obey the overseer in all things, they snarled at him, he was never to speak unless spoken to, never to raise a hand in protest nor fight against his bonds, never to question orders once given to him. They had asked him if he had understood, and perhaps he had hesitated overlong, perhaps slow, unravelling shock had dulled the words upon his tongue, and they had struck him; one hard, sharp blow across the face. He had nodded then, blood dripped from his nose, it spattered to the ground below him as feverishly he nodded, and then they had taken him; they had chained him near the mouth of a colossal furnace, they had given him a blunt-edged spade, and they had told him to shovel. 

The weakness of his limbs shocked him, that first time, the spade part-filled with coal wobbled precariously in his hands as he desperately tried to lift it, to steady it, but to no avail. The wooden handle slipped through nail-less, half-healing fingers and a snap sounded through the air; blood burst across his shoulders from a whip laved into his spine, and his cry of anguish accompanied the patter of coal falling to the filthy floor. He was more careful then, he nursed his wounds sore, and he learned; to conserve himself, to make himself busy, to ignore the chafe of the manacles about his wrists and the growing ache in his muscles until a klaxon might sound, signalling a short break for a meal or the end of the labouring day. They had taken him back to his cell afterwards; soot-stained and trembling he had stumbled his way home, and for the first time in a long time he had slept undisturbed upon his hay as true exhaustion claimed him, with the little mouse curled tightly into his chest.    

For the first few days he was left alone; he caught nothing but glimpses of other slaves, other elves like him, wretched and toiling before those whips and those relentless, burning maws of flame. He was alone, and he watched them with both curiosity and shame, but he bore his isolation like a shield, and it did not fail him. But then suddenly he was not alone; the orcs might tether him to another, adjoined at the ankle by a long twist of chain passed through a bolt riveted to the floor, and as a pair they would force him to work: one pumping an immense set of bellows that flooded the furnace with heat, and the other to shovel, feeding its ravenous belly. Dismay turned in his stomach as they led him forth, as they shackled another silent, sullen elf alongside him, and he turned his face away in shame.

They would know, something horrid and squirming and loathsome within him squalled, they would know that he had betrayed them, betrayed all of his kindred; they would recognise him for what he was, _traitor, usurper, murderer_ , they would judge him and they would hate him and they would be right to do so, and this gutting truth he could not face. So he turned his face from them, he hid away in his disgrace, and he dreaded the day where one might break from their silence, might speak to him, might expose what secrets he so desperately tried to hide.  

The fires of Angband did not sleep; they ate only iron and raw muscle, and their slaves left chewed and gnarled were ever the source of mockery. Sometimes the orcs would laugh at him; they knew, they knew what he was: _stupid, arrogant, slave, whore_ , their words blistered into him and where words failed sometimes there were humiliations; a whip-blow angled up between his legs dropped him to his knees in a filthy crunch of bone and pain, a savage jerk upon the chain at his ankles sent him sprawling into the coal-pile, and left bruises smudged below his skin. A brutish overseer marked him once; it grappled him and held him and forced his jaw open wide, its fingers slid into his mouth and a stab of pain followed, and laughter, oh what laughter clawed at him as the uruk skewered a serrated fishhook through his tongue. With a short length of twine tied to the loop upon his collar the uruk bound him, it pulled his tongue forcibly from his mouth and left him gaping, drooling like a dog, and mercilessly it cracked its whip across his back and set him to labour. A crown of barbed wire was wound about his skull; cruelly tight it pinched into his skin, and blood beaded beneath the lank, sweaty strands of his hair. He tried not to think about it, it was so much easier just to bear it numbly, and though the orcs had sniggered and jeered as they led him out that day, Maedhros swallowed down the pulsing ball of degradation that clotted in his throat, and held fast to his silence. 

A deep-throated horn blared through the cavern, and with a sigh of relief he cast down his spade. With an aching back lacerated with pink whip-wheals he sank down to sit upon the floor, and at the other end of the chain that conjoined them, his partner did also. In grim silence they awaited the overseers, and Maedhros glanced to the other captive; a well-muscled, dark skinned elf who glowered down at the flagstones before his crossed legs. Arms corded with scars flexed and relaxed in fitful pattern as the elf sat glaring, but at the rattle of the gruel-trolley that came bumping over to them, Maedhros looked quickly away. Yet eagerly out of the corner of his eye he watched as a squinting orc doled out a measure of porridge, mushrooms and shredded meat to his partner, and a bowl of greasy water was slopped down to the stones beside it by a hulking uruk. And perhaps his eyes lingered a little too long on that meagre fare, perhaps his stomach growled a little too loudly, perhaps there was no reason behind it save for callous cruelty, but how hideously he gasped as suddenly the uruk strode to him, as its iron-shod boot smashed into his ribs. 

An awful, retching cough caught in his throat, the force of it was enough to jerk the slack chain between the captives taut, and even as he sprawled there spluttering, the uruk bellowed down at him, "No!" A monstrous smile twisted its face as he cringed below it, as the orc wavered behind it, his plate of gruel in its hand. "Not for you," the uruk leered; it straightened up and addressed the orc. "Not this one." 

An awful light shone in its piggish eyes as it grabbed Maedhros by the collar, as it hauled him bodily upwards, and he all but dangled from its hand as it sneered, "Orders from above, y'hear." His blood ran cold as the uruk slid one clammy finger over his cheek, as a hungry glint crept into its smile, "Someone wants their slut to go hungry." 

Ugly laughter clotted in the air, and roughly he was relinquished; he crumpled back down to the floor and curled away, and only a plaintive little moan bled out of his throat as the uruk clattered a bowl of water to the stones by his feet, followed by a thick gobbet of saliva spat down into it. But foul though that was something fouler still coiled in his belly; _someone wants their slut to go hungry_ , he knew, he knew, with all of the crushing certainty in the world he knew who it was, he knew what ghastly creature he would be abased before, who used him, who controlled him, and he feared it beyond the measure of all of Angband's horrors. He felt terror settle into his bones. 

The grate of ceramic upon stone jolted him from horrid imaginings. He glanced to his side but through a veil of dread everything felt deadened, everything seemed so lost and so terribly far away; he saw his partner slowly retreat, and a half-full bowl of gruel left steaming between them, and he did not comprehend it. 

"Here," the elf whispered, in a strange, corrupt accent that Maedhros found disquieting. "Eat."

Dully he stared down at the bowl of food, he did not respond, and loneliness cramped with hunger in his guts.   

"Quickly!" the other elf hissed. "Take it!" 

 _"I can't..."_ His voice was scarcely a whisper, a ruined and lifeless thing. And how awful was the thing that yawned open in his belly, grey despair reached up to claim him, and there was so little that he could do to resist its pull. "He'll know..." His lips quirked painfully, rivulets of blood oozed down his cheek where the crown bit about his head. _"He always knows..."_  

A wince curled over the elf's face, the offer of food was retracted, and Maedhros could not help but start as the chains that fettered them chimed, as they chattered like evil little stars amid the gloom. For a while then they were silent, the other elf slowly ate while Maedhros sat there, but when at last he dared take one sip of his befouled portion of water, he found his partner watching him. 

"I have not seen you here before," the elf said softly, and warily Maedhros glanced at him. "What is your name?" 

The question stalled in Maedhros' heart; guilt clawed at him, fear snatched at him, and he could not meet the other elf's eyes, he could not utter the truth of himself, it was _pathetic_ , spineless and cowardly and stupid but he could not do it, he cast his eyes down and he mumbled, "I don't have a name." The words crawled like dying things over his lips, bloated with lies, with half-truths like famine. _"They took it away..."_    

"It's alright," the elf said, kindly, beseechingly; his generosity made Maedhros want to be sick. "I... I am a friend, I promise you. My name is Rog, and you need not be afraid, not of me." 

 _Rog_ ; he did not know the name, at least he did not know, that small, shameful relief slithered through his heart, and hatefully he cast it aside. Yet though something in him yearned to reach out, hard he reined it in, and in slow, silent grief he shook his head. The crown upon his brow stung and bled like a damning mark of sin, and beneath it he was broken. 

"Why have they done this to you?" the elf whispered; fear shook through Maedhros' blood and sharply, desperately he looked to his partner, and such distress blazed in him then that it almost broke him apart. 

"I didn't do it," he croaked, the words tore from him before he could give them meaning, horror and fear and shame thrust them from him, "I - " 

"Where are your family, my friend?" Rog asked, quickly, it severed the anguish that welled up in Maedhros' heart in a concealed choke of dismay. "Have you sisters, or brothers, a mother and father to welcome you home when this evil has passed?" 

Nothing but pain smudged through his heart, his chin crinkled and desperately he thrust aside that hot, grieving thing within him; he shoved it down so hard that it hurt, and hoarsely he croaked, _"I don't remember anymore..."_  

A long, bitter silence fell, and in it Maedhros sat there aching. And it was almost a blessing when the drone of the klaxon blared through the chamber once more, as he and Rog scrambled up to their feet and wearily grasped their tools once more. At least in the burn of muscles and the drip of blood there was silence, the roar of the furnaces drowned out thoughts that he did not wish to give heed to, and he welcomed their oblivion for a while. Yet all too soon it seemed that horn blasted again, and upon exhausted legs he awaited the orcs to come, to take him back to his cell, to that dreary grey cell, and his little mouse hid within it. And if, as the orcs came, their hands lingered just a little too long upon him, if clawed fingers dug into his buttocks as they pushed him, if they groped across his thighs as they steered him, with weary resignation he bit down the cry of protest that quivered in his throat, he bit it down and he expunged it and he endured; it was better, it was _so much better_ to endure. 

Up and away from the furnaces they led him, and blearily he followed, trudging his familiar way in their wake across cast-iron bridges, past mining machines and great slag-heaps of rubble, and into the claustrophobic embrace of Angband's dungeons once more. But this time something was different; where instinct told him to turn left along a narrow corridor, the orcs led him straight on down the main thoroughfare, and on, and on, and worry tightened in his stomach with each new turn, each unfamiliar step. _Someone wants their slut to go hungry_ ; the uruk's words haunted him and it was with such tightly controlled passivity that he suffered himself to be led, that he swallowed down a little noise of anxiety as at last the orcs forced him into a chamber. A wide, stone table centred the room; about it cluttered shelves and workbenches stood against the walls, and horror curled in his heart as the orcs stripped him, and bound him down upon the table. And how miserably he could see the bucket of water poised above his naked chest, the orcs fastened his wrists and ankles into thick leather straps and pulled them uncomfortably far apart, and there was nothing that he could do but splutter as an icy deluge of water hit him like a sledgehammer. 

It punched the air from his lungs and left him gasping, and as he twitched upon the table malicious laughter filled his ears. 

"Look at 'im squirm!" an orc sneered; it grabbed a thick-bristled brush from a benchtop and swiftly began to scrub over his chest. "Can't face the cold anymore, slave?"

Shivers ripped through his limbs, and hard he gritted his teeth together to stop them from chattering as the chill of that water stole over him; he clamped his jaw resolutely shut as another orc picked up a stained washcloth and began to sluice the worst of the coal-dust from his body. For the most part the orcs ignored him, they worked their methodical, ungentle way down his torso, scrubbing the grime from him in great flushes of pink abraded skin. Water dripped grey and murky from the sides of the table as they washed over his stomach, yet as their attention drew lower, as they neared his hips how horribly they began to smile, and shame burned in his heart as the brush swiped low over his pelvis. 

"Can't see why the lieutenant fucks this one," one snarled; it scraped the brush down over his hipbone hard enough to draw a breath from his lips. "Prettier pieces of arse about..." 

The other orc snorted at that, it flicked a lingering smear of dust from his ribs before lowering its gaze, and one hairy eyebrow raised in a smirk. "Got a nice cock on him..." it grinned, "four limbs..." 

"Didn't think Mairon-khur was so discerning!"

Cruel, raucous laughter rained down upon him, and so desperately he tried not to listen, he tried not to react, he tried not to give them any sign of the horror that pooled in his belly. His hands simply clenched into gaunt, bloodless fists as the cloth moved over his groin, as it wiped down the innermost juncture of his spread thighs. 

"Neaten him up was the order, aye?" the orc said, and its green eyes narrowed to a wheedling, sly look. "Lieutenant might like him... smooth, eh? D'you think? Be a nice _surprise_..." 

A dark chuckle of laughter rumbled about the room, a vicious gleam crept into the orcs' eyes, and with a leer the other nodded. And how desperately Maedhros wanted to scream as clawed hands gripped into his thighs, as an orc pushed his legs open wider and held him there, as the other procured a small bowl from a cupboard, and slowly lathered his groin and inner thighs with a bitter-smelling soap. How lascivious were their smiles, it made him want to be sick; grey-tinged lather foamed over the hair at his pubis and how he would have struggled, he would have kicked and twisted and howled in his protest, he would have done, were it not for the straight-edged razor that an orc flashed before his eyes, were it not for the prick of its blade upon his skin. Nothing but a squeak of utter humiliation wormed out of his throat as he held himself painfully still, as that blade was scraped down over his pelvis, as it shaved the hair from him in grimy lines of froth. In clever, whittling motions the orcs stripped him bare, his groin, his thighs, they left him utterly nude, and desperately he swallowed down the tears of degradation that prickled behind his eyes. 

Finally, _finally_ , the orcs finished their ministrations, the blade ran smooth over soft, vulnerable skin, and with something far more visceral than cold Maedhros shivered as the orcs continued to wash him clean. Dread settled in his stomach like a leaden weight; it only grew heavier as the orcs at last pulled him to his feet, as they sloshed a bucket-load of water over his filthy back and scrubbed that clean also, before throwing a thread-worn tunic at him and ordering him to dress. The tunic felt so strange against his skin as they dragged him from the cell, as he walked he was so horribly, acutely aware of his nudity beneath it, of its every glide and pull across fragile skin. And yet how petty such horrors seemed when at last the orcs led him into another room, when cold silver eyes beheld him with such contempt that it made him shudder, when the lieutenant's gentle hands tightened about the back of the chair behind which he stood. 

At a nod the orcs left, the door swung shut with a crunching thud in their wake, and how terrible was the silence that fell then; full of malice and hunger and despair. For how the sight of that chair wrought such evil within him, he looked upon it and the creature that smirked behind it, and he knew what would happen, for it had happened before. Just once, the lieutenant had made him do it, to open himself, to impale himself; with every fibre of his being he hated it, he _hated_ it, but he had done it, and the terror of what should happen if he refused gnawed at his bones. 

"Strip." The lieutenant's voice was as a crop caressed over his spine, the sudden contact of it jolted him, and though it did not sting he gulped at the threat that it promised. And how his heart ached within his chest as with fumbling, reluctant hands he tugged at the tunic, he twisted himself away as he raised it up over his head, so that the lieutenant wouldn't see, so that he wouldn't see him in all of his nakedness and all of his shame; it was stupid, it was so futile and helpless and stupid, and at his coyness the lieutenant's eyes grew icy. "Turn to me." 

The shake in his fingers was terrible as he discarded the tunic, the cool air of the cell lapped at his skin and desperately he sought to cover himself, he knitted his hands together over his groin to hide himself as best as he could, but he could not hide everything, and such gutting humiliation burned in his heart as the lieutenant's eyebrow raised. 

"Oh, Maitimo," the Maia crooned, a gluttonous smile rolled over his lips and how nauseating was his voice then, soft and slick and sensual and so awfully playful, he strolled from behind the chair to stand before Maedhros' hunched form. "Oh, how sweet you are, little slave. Did you do this for me?" 

With such cruel tenderness the lieutenant reached up, gentle fingers stroked over his cheek and it was all that he could do not to shudder beneath them, not to show the gulp of dismay that slid down his throat as the lieutenant's hands trailed down his body, as they came to rest upon his own. "Come now," the Maia purred, his fingers slipped about Maedhros' own and drew them away, "don't be shy. Let me see you." 

An evil smile curled the lieutenant's lips as Maedhros' hands fell numbly away; he tried so hard not to feel as the lieutenant stroked over the swell of his hipbones, as sharp nails traced the indenture of muscles down his pelvis. 

"Oh, what a precious thing," the Maia murmured, his fingers stroked lower over hairless, helpless skin. And with what cruel twist of horror did something tighten within Maedhros' stomach, some grievous, mechanical ardour spluttered into life within him at those gentle touches and desperately he tried to stifle it, to ignore it, to make it go away. "You are so kind, Maitimo, to present yourself so prettily for me." 

A horrific swell of arousal rolled through him as the lieutenant's fingers ghosted up his length, they teased over such sensitive skin and his body could not help but react; veins raised over his slowly stiffening length, and tears of shame glistened in his eyes. It was all that he could do to keep his chin from crinkling as with such horrid little touches the lieutenant taunted him, a gasp of horror bleated out of his throat at the vileness of it, and as half-erect he stood there suffering, something mean glinted in the lieutenant's eyes. 

It was so much easier not to feel, it was so much easier not to care, and he didn't care, it didn't matter; he didn't care as the lieutenant bound his shaking wrists each to the opposite elbow, it didn't matter that the lieutenant led him by the collar over to the chair, so, _so_ hard he tried to convince himself that he didn't care as the lieutenant forced him to splay his legs, forced him to sit astride him, forced him to open himself like some obscene rag-doll as the lieutenant sheathed himself to the hilt within him. Perilous tears wobbled in his throat as devoid of balance he writhed upon the lieutenant's lap, as each motion only rebounded the awful fullness within his belly, the swelling stretch of unwilling flesh and the lapping waves of pain that coursed through his guts. The Maia's hands crept to his waist, they held him there with slightly too much pressure to be comfortable, and miserably Maedhros stilled upon his lap. 

"Don't squirm," the lieutenant chided him, and with as much strength as he could muster from his trembling muscles he tried to obey, he tried to hold himself still beneath the Maia's fingers despite the growing ache inside of him.

He didn't want the lieutenant to be angry with him. The lieutenant was not so gentle when he was angry.   

"Are you hungry, slave?" the Maia asked; cunning eyes skated the jut of Maedhros' hipbones, over the shadows that lingered in the hollows of his ribs, cut deeper than they were before.  

"Y-yes, my lord," Maedhros croaked, his head bowed as waves of pain radiated through his empty, clenching belly, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight to stop the despairing tears that threatened to fall down his cheeks. 

"Oh," the Maia breathed, in one slow, devastating movement his hips rolled, and Maedhros gasped in discomfort as the lieutenant’s length was forced just a little bit deeper into his body. But ever the lieutenant's hands were there, they massaged in too-rough little circles over his hips, they slid so possessively down his sides, they wandered so awfully up the bluish veins of his hardening length. "There, now," the lieutenant murmured, "it's all right. We'll find you something to eat soon enough, now won't we?" 

Maedhros could only whimper as the lieutenant's fingers stroked over his tip, as too-sensitive skin flared to unwilling engorgement; such terrible arousal bolted through him and how vile was the Maia's smirk as fingers slid over smooth, soft skin, as instinct betrayed him, as he parted his legs just a little bit wider.  

"Good boy, Maitimo," the lieutenant crooned; his hands wandered slowly upwards to scrape the hair back from Maedhros' face, to tuck it neatly behind his ears. "Don't you look so handsome now, so proper? All full and warm just like you should be."

Silent tears dripped down his cheeks and he could not restrain them, a chasm of despair reeled open in his heart and it would not close, it only bled out its desolation as his lip wobbled, as his body crumpled forwards, but how that collapse only thrust himself down harder upon the lieutenant's length. A moan of anguish caught in his throat, it felt bloodied there like a scream, and it was all that he could do to somehow whisper around it, "Yes, my lord. Th- thank you, my lord..." 

"Gratitude indeed," the lieutenant purred, a triumphant sneer curled his lips, and his hands slipped to Maedhros' waist to rock him upon his lap as he leaned forward, as he smiled, "For I am generous to you, am I not? There are others, Maitimo, so many others, those who want to abuse those lips, to fuck that pretty arse of yours, all rough, and nasty, and uncaring. Whenever have I treated you with such cruelty?" 

"N-never, my lord," Maedhros keened, the words soft and hollow in his throat as pressure ebbed and swelled in his guts. "You are very k-kind to me." 

"Indeed," the Maia murmured, and though with his left hand he still moved Maedhros' hips in a slow, agonising grind upon him, with his right hand he reached up, he wiped the tears from Maedhros' flushed cheeks. "Come, don't cry now. Don't cry." 

"S-sorry, my lord," Maedhros gulped, and he tried to be quiet then, truly he did. He tried to make the lieutenant pleased with him, he tried to make this end all the quicker; he bit back a whimper of dismay as the Maia's hands groped over his buttocks, over his waist, as fingers prodded over the bruises that blossomed still over the base of his stomach. He stifled a yelp of pain as languidly, callously, the lieutenant’s nails scratched at a whip-wheal upon his back; he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the unearthly smile that curved over the Maia's face as slowly the scab was peeled from him. Flesh tore from him in a thin ribbon of pain; it wept pus and blood and fluid plasma in one sticky emulsion to drip slowly down his back. 

The lieutenant's fingers swirled through the mess, they raked over his hips smearing gore in their wake, and Maedhros gulped down a cry of dismay as newly slickened they slid up his length. Every stir of the lieutenant up inside of him was laced only with hurt, with humiliation, every glide of fingers over the engorged flesh of his crown was a violation; and oh what hideous, gleeful light erupted in the lieutenant's eyes as Maedhros squirmed in horror at the clear fluid gradually forced from his length. 

"You're so wet for me, little whore," the lieutenant sneered. "Whatever would _ammë_ think?" 

A wordless, hurting moan stuck in Maedhros' throat as the lieutenant rocked him forwards, as he cradled him close, as he kissed him so awfully upon the lips. At the sheer, overwhelming crush of him Maedhros wriggled his hips in protest; pressure crashed and collided and redoubled inside of him and a dreadful gasp shook through his lungs, something in him quivered and how reproachfully the lieutenant looked to him then. 

"Are we having naughty thoughts now, Maitimo?" he purred; every tiny press, every aching twitch of the lieutenant's length was excruciating, was abhorrent, and at that fresh twist of degradation a bubbling sob hitched in Maedhros' chest. 

"N-no, my lord," he whimpered, but how swiftly his truths turned to flatteries upon his tongue as he heard the sharpness in the lieutenant's breath, and he quailed at the thought of what might befall his stupidity. "I didn't..." he choked, "I d-didn't _mean_ to... I - I thought it would make you happy, my lord, I thought..." 

"Hush," the Maia crooned, those gentle hands stroked over his cheeks in a gutting mockery of a lover's caress, they soothed away the fright that quaked in his heart. "Hush now. We don't need these tears, these guilty little things... We don't need such difficult thoughts to bring them. We don't need you thinking such silly things, now do we?"  

"No, my lord," Maedhros bleated. The words shivered from his lips. "I'm s-sorry, my lord." 

"We just need you to _obey_." 

He nodded, slowly at first and then far more frantically as he felt the lieutenant push his legs further apart, as pressure stabbed into his guts, as fingernails raked over his inner thigh, over the dulled bruises and whorled scaffold-scars that clustered there already. And oh what panic stirred in his heart as slowly that grip upon him tightened, he sweated and shook beneath it until at last he whimpered, "Please, my lord... please don't... I - I do obey you, I _do_. I just thought... no, no please, _please_..."

With such cold disdain the lieutenant ignored him, fingers like talons speared into Maedhros' leg; the lieutenant gripped into a chunk of skin there and twisted, ripped; a bloodied hunk of flesh was torn from Maedhros' thigh and how he shrieked as that pain slammed through him. His hands scrabbled in their nerveless bonds, his body bucked and a moment later how he sobbed as that motion only drove him harder onto the lieutenant's length still throbbing up inside of him, and those twinned agonies crashed their horror within him. 

Harsh, coughing sobs shuddered up through his chest, desolation yawned open in his stomach and he no longer cared for dignity as he sat there aching. With fey, uncaring eyes the lieutenant watched him, all the while appraising the ragged gobbet of flesh still pinched between his fingers. 

"Will you obey me now?" The lieutenant's voice was soft, almost sorrowful, and it was all the more horrible for it.

It was all that Maedhros could do to gulp in a lungful of air, to rasp, "Y-yes, my lord. I'm _s-sorry_ , my lord..." And with a smile that curdled the breath within his throat the lieutenant reached up, that foul clot of flesh dangled from his hand, and a red, salty blister of blood was smeared across Maedhros' lips. 

The lieutenant's face was beatific; so serene and tender and awful, and Maedhros could not bear to look upon him. He dipped his head in anguish, and as pale tears trickled down over his cheeks, over his lips, they fell away washed in pink. A derisive breath of laughter tremored in the lieutenant's throat, contempt twisted his lips, and with sudden force he gripped into Maedhros' bound arms, and sneered, _"You are disgusting."_  

"Get off of me!" the lieutenant snapped; vanished was that playful mood of before into something far sharper, and overcome with hurt and humiliation it was all that Maedhros could do to dumbly follow. The lieutenant pushed him upwards and clumsily he rose; a horrific groan of relief tumbled out of his throat as he raised himself free of the lieutenant's length, as that paralysing pressure within him slowly began to dissipate. But fleeting was his respite, for roughly the lieutenant spun him about, and with a shove set him stumbling forward. Powerless to balance himself, his chest and shoulder jammed hard into the wall of the cell; with bruising force the lieutenant pressed him up against it, his cheek slammed into the stones with impact enough to set his head ringing, and as he felt the lieutenant's thighs slip between his own, how fervently he wished that it had done more, that it had dashed his brains out in one gruesome slop and so ended him, that he could be granted the release that he so craved and just limp away to rest. 

But it would not be so, it could not be so; the inside of his mouth tasted like rust as the lieutenant forced him to bend slightly, as the lieutenant pressed with such appalling ease up inside of him once more. Crushed there against the wall, every thrust ground his cheek into the cold, unyielding stones, every thrust set pain blossoming open inside of him, every thrust set a prayer jarring through his heart for it to just be over quickly. And perhaps it was so, or perhaps it was not; what meant time in the throes of such violation, but eventually the lieutenant spent himself inside of him, eventually the lieutenant unbound him, eventually the lieutenant led him sore and exhausted and numb back to his cell, and left him there to wither. 

The orcs would come for him, they would drag him off to the furnaces and force him to labour there, and numbly he shuffled where he was led. He was brought again to the lieutenant sometimes, and as one stricken dumb he would try to obey in what was demanded of him, everything unravelled in the push of flesh into flesh, everything split apart under such cunning, calculated abuse; they hollowed him out until there was scarce little left in him but pain. But maybe at the end of each grey, lifeless day there might come one moment of succour, one tiny pleasure left to him in the bleak confines of his cell. For over chains and through slowly stagnating hay the little mouse would flit to him, confident now in its boldness it would sit grooming itself within his hand, it would nestle amongst the bedding with him as he tried to find some measure of untroubled sleep, and he was so grateful for its company as long, lonely time wore on. For it felt safe with him, and through some nameless emotion he felt safe with it, it was his secret, and his alone, one small private thing in a place that had stripped him of everything else. 

At the approaching tread of an iron-shod boot it would take swift flight towards its lair, and it would not creep back to him until long after the intruders had passed, and for its vigilance Maedhros was glad. It was a clever little thing, it was always watchful, yet what grave lapse in attention befell it one day as it sat nibbling upon a stray wheat germ Maedhros could not know, and deep within his bones he grieved for it.  

The unheralded slide of the bolt within the lock sent a spasm of fear rippling through its whiskers; the door slammed open without warning and terror seized it, the wheat fell from its paws but it did not run, it simply sat there trembling as with a nauseatingly gallant smile the lieutenant strode through the doorway, with a tall lady upon his arm. Hurriedly Maedhros hunched forward as they swept into the cell, he snatched his hand back into himself and tried to shield the mouse from view, his fingers closed into a protective cocoon about its quivering body as he cradled his arm into his chest, and from where he sat half-curled by the wall, he prayed that the positioning of his body seemed natural.

"Your whim is ever my pleasure, my lady," the lieutenant was saying, and with a grandiose sweep of his hand he waved over to where Maedhros sat. "Here sits the former king of the Noldor, in all of his squalor."

The lady's smile shone bright at that, pointed teeth flashed from behind lips stained cruor red, and eyes like poured pitch beheld him. He knew her, Maedhros realised with a start; Thuringwethil, he thought that the lieutenant had said her name that one time before, in the Moringotto's hall, before those monstrous things came, and the sardonic peals of her laughter had ever echoed in his heart. 

Silent he remained, sullenly he sat there as they stood before him; the mouse scratched and fretted within the cage of his fingers as her painted lips opened, as lightly she said, "He looks so miserable, the poor thing. What a pitiful sight..." 

Her words glossed over him and he did not react, there was little left in him to pity; he could feel the mouse's fluttering little heartbeat through the palm of his hand and he just prayed that they would leave. A moment passed in silence, and then a moment too long; the lieutenant's mouth twisted in displeasure and starting forward he snapped, "Come, slave, get up. Present yourself properly before your betters." 

Panic flared in Maedhros' heart; instinct spurred him to move and yet he knew that he could not, the mouse shivered and scratched within his hand and if he moved to kneel they would see it, they would see it; torn there he hesitated, he glanced up at the lieutenant with guilt in his eyes, and he hesitated overlong, and it was his undoing. For the lieutenant reached forward to grab him by the collar and up to his knees he was dragged, his body uncurled and his hand fell away from where it was concealed, and all too damning was the unnatural clutch of his fingers as he fumbled to hide them behind his back. 

Surprise crossed the lieutenant's brows for a moment, the lady Thuringwethil looked down at him in puzzlement, but how swiftly did the lieutenant move then, the Maia snatched his hand from behind his back, and with one jerk that near sheared bone with its force he shook Maedhros' fingers open. And oh what icy, unstoppable dread slicked through Maedhros' stomach as the mouse tumbled from his hand, as quicker than his eyes could follow the lieutenant lunged forward, and an exultant smirk unfurled across his face. 

For from his fingers the mouse dangled by its tail, it squeaked and kicked in shrill distress, but tightly the lieutenant held it, swung it, wiggled it like a token of sin before Maedhros' horrified eyes. And like venom dripped through blood how the air seemed to thicken, to coagulate, to choke; the mouse squeaked and squeaked and squeaked in the gutting silence that fell, and utterly, helplessly aghast Maedhros stared at it. He could not bear to look upon the lieutenant's face, he could not bear to see the contempt there as slowly, gloatingly the Maia purred, "What is this?" 

He had no words, terror flooded through his veins and sutured them into his throat. He could only shake his head, _no, no, no_ , that hysterical little tremor was all that he could muster, all that he could give as that tiny mouse was swung before his eyes. 

"Vile little creature," the lieutenant remarked, he straightened then, and showed it to the lady, who looked from it to Maedhros trembling there upon the floor.

And something in the set of the lieutenant's shoulders betrayed his intentions, the shift of his hips, the tendon pulled taut over his knuckle, the malicious light in his eyes; the lady saw something of them, she saw Maedhros suffering there, and something wry plucked at her lips. She laid her hand upon the lieutenant's arm, and she smiled with condescending ease, and she said, "Oh, Mairon, do not be cruel. It is a mouse: what harm can it do? Let him keep it." 

The air clotted in Maedhros' lungs, the moment dragged on forever, until the lieutenant shifted, and replied, "No." 

A cry lurched from Maedhros' lips as the mouse was dashed to the floor, as the helpless creature lay there stunned for a moment, as the lieutenant stepped forward and crushed its skull beneath the heel of his boot. 

Open-mouthed with shock Maedhros could but stare, he could only splutter and keen in such visceral, wordless horror at the ruined mess of fur and bone left twitching on the stones before him. With a sneer of disdain the lieutenant left him, and the lady followed in his wake, and into the endless chasm of black, seething, unyielding despair that rolled open in Maedhros' stomach, the lieutenant's parting words dropped like pebbles into fathomless lake; a sting as their ripples broke the surface, and nothing but silence below.    

"There is enough vermin in this fortress already."   

 

 

* * *

 

_Well, here we are. A huge thank you to everyone who has borne with the immense wait for this chapter's completion - I really hope it was worth it. And if you're new here, welcome to whatever Hell this is!_

_Edit: if you weren't heartbroken enough, check out[this stunning piece of fanart](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/post/160590408642/glorfy-the-bright-haired-ellon-there-is-enough) of Maedhros and his mouse friend done by the extremely talented glorfy-the-bright-haired-ellon on tumblr! It left me speechless, it's that good!_

_As usual, questions, comments or concerns may be addressed in the comment section here, or else[markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask) is my usual lair. I really hope you've enjoyed this update, and though I can't promise that the next instalment shall be soon, I shall live up to my pen-name and say that it shall arrive eventually! Best x _


	10. The Hate In The Stones

The slam of the cell door in the lieutenant's wake was an implosion, a wound. It gutted him. It shook his innards spilling through his fingers and shocked the breath from his lungs, and all that he could do was stare, stare at the broken thing that lay on the stones before him.

Blood seeped across the floor, vivid, vital red on stony grey. It pooled upon fur, upon organs, upon shattered shards of bone. It bled into loss, into shock, into breathless, eviscerating grief.

A twitch juddered through the mouse's fragile little body, some lifeless reflex set muscles spasming in macabre animation, and helplessly he stared at it, beyond belief or thought or sanity he gaped at it. And how his stomach turned as he heard the scratch of its failing limbs, the tiny scrape of nails upon stone, he heard it feigning life and suddenly the air was too close, too sticky and clawing and claustrophobic, it hissed in his lungs as he stumbled forwards upon his knees. Without intent, without thought, as one stricken dumb he shuffled forwards, he neared the twitching, ruined thing and he only wanted to make it stop, to make it be still, to cease that horrible, _horrible_ little noise and with it sever the shame that welled up inside of him. 

 _This is all your fault;_ the thought ripped up from his stomach and it disembowelled him, it left him reeling, spinning, _hurting_ ; mania born of grief gripped him and beneath it something foul simmered, and as he reached out towards the mouse it was all that he could do to grapple it down. Red, his fingertips came away slaked in red as he picked up the body, all limp fur and soft, sloppy muscle below. In his cupped hand he held it; his secret, his solace, it was the only thing that he had left in the world and now it was gone, it was gone because of him, he cradled its mutilated little body and bitter tears dripped into the gore that pooled within his palm.    

 _Because of you, because of you;_ a bubbling breath hitched up from his lungs and for a moment of faintness he swayed. The mouse lolled in his hand with his motion; slack muscle rolled over a crunching scaffold of bone, blood clotted between his fingers and such nausea turned in his stomach that with shaking fingers he laid it back to the stones, and with it he came undone. Hastily, clumsily he thrust it aside; a skein of sweat broke over his forehead as hard he breathed, as he trembled, as he grieved. _This is all your fault_.   

 _No_ , he whimpered, it was more a bubbling croak of anguish than any actual word, _no, no, no,_ guilt buckled in his heart and how much it hurt, it hurt so much more than rage or pain, it hurt because it was true; everything that they had said, _stupid, stupid_ ; everything, every failing in him dredged up into the light and how contemptuous was what it revealed. For how those awful things crawled in his blood, they wove through sinew and flesh and how he wished that he could be rid of them, that he could atone, that he could simply make it stop; _murderer_ , something vile in him crooned, and as if to escape it he twisted upon his knees. 

To his side he fell, his head thudded against the wall as carelessly he toppled, and the shock of it drove the breath from his lungs. For amid the impact and the pain there was something else, there was joy, there was righteousness; for one small second how _good_ it made him feel, calm and hurting and blissful, such euphoria burst in him and how soon it twisted to craving.  Against the wall he slumped, he thrust his head back and again it cracked into the stones, pain blossomed through his skull for a moment but behind it oh what rapture, what delirious deliverance; a manic, exultant grimace slashed across his lips and for a few moments then he sat still. 

His skull ached but at least it was clean, with trembling hands he pressed into himself and as pain erupted beneath his fingers at least it was real, it was right, it was just. Again he dug into himself, his hair twisted tight about his fingers as he knotted them against his skull and how delicious it felt, how _deserved_ ; the mouse was gone and how many others were broken too, it was all his fault, _it was all his fault_ , and how desperately he had to hurt for it. Something craven quivered deep within him and again he drilled his fingers against his skull, he held himself so hard that his knuckles whitened, that ghostly lights flashed before his eyes, and how he revelled in the pain that flourished beneath his hands. He needed it, he wanted it, it was the only way that he could atone, that he could make it better, he had to hurt so that he could be sorry, that was what the lieutenant had told him, he had to hurt, he had to hurt, and as hair ripped through half-healed fingertips it did hurt, but in his pain there was only sorrow. 

Again and again he clutched at himself, he tore himself apart before the indifferent stones as grief gnawed him away. His hair knotted and frayed as he pulled at it, it came away in his hands and carelessly he let it; he begged for an oblivion that would not come, that would not be granted to him. For there was no respite in the Moringotto's halls, no kind place for redemption; there was only suffering, and upon its relentless tide he crumbled away. 

He tried to bury the mouse, to mourn it with dignity, though when such lucidity of thought came to him he could not tell. The ceaseless light bled out through the room, and he could only tell the passing of time as the ache in his cramped limbs became unbearable, and at last he was forced to stir. Through swollen, red-rimmed eyes he looked at the broken thing lying naked upon the floor; it had been so gentle, so kind to him, and misery clotted afresh in his throat at the gore that dried upon the stones, at its tiny, stiff limbs.

It deserved better than such an ignoble grave, he thought, and upon sore, scuffed knees he shuffled over to it. The cleanest straw that he could find within his meagre bedding he offered to it, he wrapped it snugly within a bower of fibres and gently laid it aside in the far corner of his cell. He should say something, he felt, he should honour it, yet in silence he knelt above it as grief sewed him shut. 

It was just a mouse; what could he possibly say to it? It was just a mouse. It was all that he had in the world. 

 _How pathetic._  

The thought tolled like a death-knell in his heart, and exhausted he drew himself away. Upon the mouldering hay he cast himself, he curled his knees up tight to his chest, he closed his eyes and wished to know no more of heartache.

 

* * *

 

The silence stretched on; it was enough to drive him mad. There was nothing left to break it save himself; the coarse hiss of his breath, the rasp of the hay upon stone and skin and tunic should he shift upon it, the brush of flesh upon flesh as nervously he rubbed his healing fingers upon his arm. The nails were re-growing where they were once torn from him, and anxiously he observed them; soft, delicate sheets of cartilage slowly grew over empty skin and wondrously he touched them, he touched with them, he felt the little thrill of revulsion as still his finger below was too pliant, too tender. In agitated little twitches sometimes he would rub at himself, on his arms, his thighs, hard and soft, hard and soft, sometimes he would scratch, and how he would marvel at the white lines left scraped across his skin and the feverish blush that came after. Over and over he would do it, a prickle of pain and then the shock of that pink, gaudy and organic and beautiful. It offered him mercy from the disquiet that crept into his heart, or he thought that it did, for again and again he would count the stones, one hundred and forty-three of them, and with meticulous compulsion he would stroke his fingers along his arm to the rhythm of his counting, and somehow it helped to calm him. 

For sometimes his breath would quicken, his chest would squeeze and his heart pound within his ribs, he fretted and worried and rubbed at himself as anxiety swept through him, yet as abruptly as such emotion may come then so too would it fade, and its absence left him empty. And to fill that emptiness sometimes he was not so gentle: he would twist at his hair, he would knot it between his fingers and then rip it apart, peel it, split it; a grimace of such rapturous pain curled his lips as he pulled it clean from his scalp, and he cast its broken strands to the floor. 

Guilt scooped him hollow, sorrow made him grow crooked; he was so, so alone, and in his loneliness he twisted himself. 

It was better to be empty, he thought, or he thought that he thought; the chain at his throat slithered if he should move and how it startled him, hunger cramped in his belly and with it came only doubt. The orcs had not come to him, he thought, ever since it had happened they had not fed him, and now the skin grew taut in the hollows of his ribs. Thirst parched him, he only troubled himself to reach for his cup when its discomfort became all too great, to sip at the last greasy dregs of water left to stale long ago. Against the wall he would sit huddled, or laid out across the hay, or curled into a corner; in the fretful hours between haunted dreams he sat, and waited, and twisted at his hair until it split apart in his fingers, and even its destruction was not enough to sate the void that gaped open within him. 

The rattle of the bolt within the door set his heart hammering, iron-shod boots tramped into his cell and grievously he shied away from them. Against the wall he shrunk, he curled himself up tight, and through the bony cage of his knees he peeked upwards and glimpsed the swarthy uruk jailor that stood surveying the cell and the two smaller orcs that flanked it. A growl of displeasure parted the uruk's lips pierced with metal and bone-shards as it looked upon him, and its squinted eyes rolled as it glanced over the stagnant hay that littered the floor. To the other orcs it motioned, and they strode forwards, and to Maedhros' alarm began to quickly clear the hay from the cell, grabbing it up in lank armfuls to pile up in the corridor outside. 

They would take it, he thought suddenly, they would take the mouse from him, from its grave; horror wrenched at his heart and abruptly he unfolded himself, the chain at his throat rattled its discontent as he scrambled towards the corner of the cell where it lay buried.   

"You!" the jailor bellowed, "Stay still!" 

Although he flinched at the ferocity in its voice somehow he seized his prize, he snatched up the bundle of hay and held it close to his chest, and as quickly as his stiff limbs could manage he scuttled back against the wall as the orcs cleared the hay from about him. The jailor's eyes narrowed as he hunched there, as the orcs stripped the cell bare save for the clutch of hay in his hands, and how his heart tremored as he felt its weight within his fingers. They could not have it, they could not have it; he could feel the soft squash of muscle, the malleable bend of rotting bone, they could not have it, it was his, it was _his_ ; dark fervour unfurled in his veins as tighter still he gripped into it, as his lips peeled back into a snarl. _They could not have it._  

An orc swept the hay from beside his leg and hatefully he hissed at it, yet at even that tiny rebellion the jailor grunted, and menacingly it strode forward. 

"Move," it growled at him; yellow-stained fangs stood blunt in an iron jaw, and balefully Maedhros glared at it. It was only as the uruk's hand flexed towards the cruel whip coiled at its belt that he heeded it, slowly and carefully he shuffled himself aside, the hay held tightly against his chest. Yet too slow he was, perhaps, or too cunning, or not cunning enough, for the jailor leered down at him, one meaty finger pointed, and it grunted, "That filth there, give it, now." 

Panic flared in Maedhros' heart, tighter still he gripped to the hay, and in a low, shaking voice he said, "No." 

At that the jailor snorted, and the two orcs peered at him, yet closer still the jailor pressed him, and meaner this time it growled, "Give it to me."

"No!" Maedhros spat; fear spurred to mania in his heart and ferociously he spat the word up into the jailor's face, tendons stood stark across the back of his hand as he clutched the hay into himself. Hard and fast and panting came his breath through gritted teeth as something feral gripped him, as fiercely, shrilly he said, "You can't have it!" 

For a moment there was silence; a shocked, sadistic stillness. But then the jailor's face twisted, the two orcs barged forwards, their hands clamped down upon his shoulders and hauled him up, and whatever brittle calm there was left in him shattered. 

Desperately he struggled as they held him, one hauled upon the chain at his throat with throttling force whilst the other's bulk engulfed him, biting fingers dug into his arms as he pulled against their grip, as he tried to shield himself, as he tried so hard to hold onto that precious bundle of hay. They couldn't have it, they couldn't take it from him; the collar jammed into his throat as harder still the orcs grappled him, yet with strength that he did not know he still possessed he bucked against them, his fingers shone white and bloodless with the pressure he was exerting as he clutched into the mouse. He could feel the nauseating roll of its bones in his grip but he would not let it go, he couldn't, he _couldn't_ , they couldn't take it from him and "no," he panted, he shrieked as clawed fingers latched into his biceps with agonising strength, as they began to wrench his arms apart, "no, no, _no_ -" 

A brutal knee to his ribs sent the breath spinning from his lungs, he retched with the impact of it and in that crippling moment of weakness his grip loosened, and with iron force the orcs snatched at his hands. Yet with violence born of hysteria still he fought them, he struggled and kicked and spat, "no, no, no, _please_ ," he howled; he howled it to the merciless stones as the orcs' nails dug into his knuckles, and with a hoarse shriek a joint popped, and then a second; the orcs fingers drilled into his hands and clove cartilage asunder.

Pain slammed up his arm in paralysing waves, and it was only with a gut-wrenching crack of bone that at last his grip failed him, they tore his aching hands apart and whisked the tangled lump of hay away. 

"Please," he whimpered, tears trickled down his cheeks as still he struggled, as near delirious with anguish he croaked, "Please, you can't..." 

A vicious clout across the face clotted a sob in his lungs; he spluttered with the shock of it as grief thundered through his heart, as the orcs pressed him down onto his chest and snatched his hands up behind his back. It was futile, it was always futile, how many times would they have to break him for him to realise that it was futile to fight; he just wept his hatred out onto the stones as he felt loops of cord being bound about his wrists, as rope circled his elbows and pulled them painfully tight at the small of his back. Knots cinched into his skin and desolation crumbled through his heart. 

The jailor's knee crushed down into his spine as it straddled him, as it pinned him there; the two smaller orcs quickly replenished the cell with a fresh batch of hay, and paused but a moment to scrub the stones free of that one damning scab of blood upon them. 

The mouse was gone, it was wiped away, and with it something of himself was scoured away too; grief dragged at his bones as with a gasp of air wheezing back into his lungs the jailor arose. 

A sneer distorted its foul face, and all too vindictively it said, "Leave 'im bound, boys!" 

Its boot clipped hard into Maedhros' shoulder as carelessly it stepped clear of him, and the two orcs peered down at him in glee. 

"Oi, Kufthur-shar," one hissed; spit bubbled upon needle-like teeth as it pointed down at his head. "His hair, look! It ain't right." 

The jailor snarled in displeasure, and helplessly Maedhros was dragged up by one gargantuan hand as the uruk lifted him, before shoving him down hard against the wall. Into a sitting position he slumped, and already he could feel the ache of his bound arms begin to drag through his chest. 

"Ach," the uruk spat, it peered closely at Maedhros' damaged hairline where he had twisted at it and scowled. "They do that sometimes, sick things. Pull it thin - it's stress, that's what I think. But what's to matter, eh? He ain't gonna be doing it anymore!" 

Dark laughter rumbled through the cell as the orcs withdrew, and as the door slammed shut in their wake Maedhros crumpled down to his side amid the dusty hay. Already his arms and chest grew uncomfortable in their stricture, and hard he fought to stifle the sorrow that gouged through his heart. The mouse was gone, it was gone, truly now he was alone, and as the colossal malice of Angband glowered down upon him how wretched truly he was. 

For how long he left him there, tied like that, he did not ever want to know. For with every passing breath his discomfort only grew; the dull, stretched ache sharpened to jagged blades of pain stabbed through his chest, and no matter how much he might squirm he could not shift the cramps that knotted through his shoulders, nor through his arms and back left helplessly constrained. Numb, swollen fingers twitched as for what seemed like the millionth time he tried to fight against the cord that held him; the rope scored open, weeping grazes into his wrists as again and again he pulled at them, as much as his failing strength would allow he writhed in their relentless grasp until pain exhausted him, and back into torpor he fell. 

Twice the orcs came; his arms screamed with discomfort as they hauled him up to his knees, and how his back and chest trembled with the stress of it as they forced him to bend, to eat, to drink. He licked the gruel that they brought from the stones; they jeered at him, prodded him, hurt him, and like an obedient dog he obeyed his heartless masters, for he dared not challenge them now. He just abased himself like they wanted, it was so much easier this way, he was a good slave for them, good and empty, devoid of all emotion or reason. It was better, he told himself; his arms flushed purple with bruises as blood-flow constricted, his shoulders spasmed in agony of their bondage, and though it hurt, thought it was humiliating, still it was so much better than what else might be.   

Hounded by pain they left him tied, grief glimmered still in his blood and in the silence of his cell there compulsion festered. Hot and clamouring, it wound about his heart, it whispered of salvation and towards it he drifted, as once he had before. Again and again he would flex his wrists, a grimace split across his lips as the ropes seared across raw flesh but still he rubbed against them, pain blossomed through him and how _good_ it felt. It was organic, it was right, it was _craving_ ; he grated flesh away from bone until the ropes were wetted red, but never could he quite find the solace that he sought. 

All of his desperate contortions, all of that pain, it was not enough, it was never enough; ever its climax eluded him, for it only left him bruised. It did not split the vein.

Feverish and bleeding the orcs found him, he shivered red into the sweat-dampened hay; his fingers throbbed purple and nerveless white in the ghastly light and he did not have the strength to protest as they lifted him, as they forced him to sit before them. He just lolled in their grip as they inspected the stained ropes at his wrists and the oozing sores beneath, he only spluttered as they forced a beaker of water down his throat, as they pulled back his lower lip to reveal gums worn pallid blue-grey, and at that they grew dismayed. 

Over him they growled at each other in their unintelligible language, they bickered for what seemed like a dreary eternity before they discarded him once more, and to his misery abandoned him. But it was not for long, not this time, no; anxiety knitted in his stomach as far too soon the bolt slid within its lock, and from where he slumped across the hay he opened one weary eye to the trespasser. And with what icy stab of horror did he behold that familiar blond hair, that familiar smug sneer, that treacherous smile that never quite reached the lieutenant's eyes. 

A whimper coiled out of his throat as the lieutenant strode to him, as the Maia leant down beside his contorted form, as cool hands brushed over the bloodied rope at his wrists. Too roughly those hands grasped him, though in truth they were gentle, too horrific were the memories of what else they had done; the mouse, his friend, it had squeaked in its terror as it swung from the lieutenant's fingers, and he was too scared to help it, too pathetic to do anything but watch, witness, _crunch;_ desperately hard he fought to stifle the bile that came shuddering up his throat. 

The lieutenant's hands left him, they came away smudged with gore, and as the Maia looked at them an expression of disdain curled his handsome features. 

"Maitimo, Maitimo," the lieutenant glutted; his name so soft upon such vile lips was as a poison, and down to the bone it burned. "Do you grieve so much?" 

A knot of pain clenched in his chest, loathing sewed his answer into his throat and how he longed for it to erupt, to explode, to immolate, yet it would not, it could not, fear stayed his heart and trembling he looked away. He pressed his face into the hay and only wished that the lieutenant would go, that he could be left alone once more in his solitude and just fade back into pain. 

"No," the lieutenant said coldly. "You do not." In the colourless light, the blood upon the lieutenant's fingers was damning. "Your grief is selfish." 

"No..." Maedhros murmured, it was less a word than a gulp of sorrow, but acridly it was received. 

"I had thought us past such petty deceptions, such baseless acts," the Maia said, and bitter regret was in his voice. "I had such trust in you, Maitimo, trust that you might serve me faithfully as once you had promised. Is this to be the value of your word? I have vouched for you before my lord, I have spared you horrors of which you could not conceive, and this is how my generosity is repaid; with sordid treachery and guile. Ever I seek to uncover the best in you, and ever you prove to me a disappointment." 

A long pause hung dead in the air between them, guilt turned in Maedhros' stomach and into the hay he pressed himself, and helplessly he croaked, "I'm s-sorry, my lord..." 

"Get up!" the lieutenant snapped, puissance flashed through the cell and pain split through Maedhros' belly. It shocked the breath from his lungs, it left him gagging, and in painful, jerky movements he scrambled upwards, his knees slid through the hay as he levered himself into a dishevelled sitting position. His arms pulsed numb behind his back, the aftershock of pain throbbed through his stomach, and it took every shred of willpower that he had left to raise his head, to look upon the lieutenant who stood before him with a withering expression of disgust upon his face. 

"Now tell me, Maitimo," the lieutenant sneered, "what means the apology of a liar to me?" 

A breath hitched in Maedhros' throat and awkwardly he swallowed it down, his eyes slipped from the lieutenant's face as instinctively he bowed his head. "I didn't, my lord. Please, my lord, I... I didn't betray you, I _didn't_ lie to you. I just..." 

"You just... what?" 

"I... I thought... _It was just a mouse_..." 

Sour mirth curled the lieutenant's lip and terror seized in Maedhros' veins, malice glittered in the Maia's eyes and below it he quailed. For he knew that look, all too well he knew it and he dreaded it and the sight of it now turned his innards to water. 

The lieutenant was about to inflict pain. 

"Please, my lord," Maedhros croaked, with every ounce of passion he could summon he begged, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please... I... I didn't think..." 

Dark puissance crackled in his ears, he could feel the itch of it as it laved across his skin, and he gulped, "Please, I... I can make it better. Please, my lord... I... I'll do whatever you want, please..." 

A pregnant moment hung in the air, for coy seconds the lieutenant appraised his words, then slyly purred, "And what apology do you think that you could offer me?" 

A deep, ugly flush slowly reddened across Maedhros' cheeks, it mottled down his neck as shame brimmed within him, and hard he gritted his teeth to stop his jaw from trembling. For what difference would it make, some despairing part of him thought, what possible difference could there be. He had done it before, the lieutenant had made him do it and the lieutenant had liked it, and it wasn't so bad, it wasn't so bad, it wasn't a violation, not really; it could not be an evil if he offered to do it. It could not be an evil, it could not be an evil, but if it was not evil then why did he feel so sick, why did he feel so awful, so stupid and helpless and hurting as haltingly he raised his head, as he breathed, "I could... I..." 

Heat glowed from his cheeks, the words stuck into him with barbs of steel but at last he wrenched them forth, and slivers of gore trailed in their wake. "I could... _please_ you, my lord, with... with my mouth, if you wanted... if... only if you wanted, my lord..." 

A smile slowly curved over the lieutenant's face; it was exultant, it was _vile_ , it was steeped in such victorious gluttony as his eyes widened in mock surprise.

"Oh, Maitimo," he purred. "You ask me so sweetly, precious thing. You beg for me like a lover. How cruel would I be to refuse you?" 

Tears prickled behind his eyes as the lieutenant stepped towards him then, shame skewered through his heart and left him quivering. It was all that he could do not to sob as the lieutenant gently lifted him to his knees, as the lieutenant parted his trousers to reveal himself already stiffening, to take himself into his hand and coax himself to hardness. 

 _It could not be an evil_ ; he clung to the words as his arms throbbed in their stricture, as the lieutenant's fingers knotted through his hair, as he opened his mouth and closed his eyes and he only tried not to shudder as the lieutenant pushed slowly into his mouth. With slow, unfeeling motion he bobbed his head, he felt the weight of the lieutenant across his tongue and he reviled it, he hated it, in reluctant little motions he teased his way up the lieutenant's length and how disgusting it made him feel. It was so much better to be empty; they were just motions after all, just the slide of flesh upon flesh, they didn't have meaning and in them he could be numb, but suddenly the lieutenant's fingers clenched down upon his hair, and helplessly he spluttered as the lieutenant arched his head backwards. 

"You begged for my indulgence willingly," the lieutenant warned, softly, cruelly. "Do not lose my favour."

Horror clenched in his stomach, desperate fervour glimmered in his blood and with whatever false, brittle desire that he could summon he nodded, and down once more he bent. And maybe it was not so awful to take the lieutenant down deeper, maybe it was not so horrible to swirl his tongue about his torturer's engorged head, to taste the fluid that gathered there, to tease across each turgid vein and stimulate each swollen ridge of flesh, and as a sigh of satisfaction emanated from the lieutenant above him nothing but relief rolled through him. Endure, endure; hard he fought to keep himself from gagging as the lieutenant pressed himself further down his throat, saliva bubbled upon his lips with the force of his motion as quickly, desperately he moved, his tongue laved up the lieutenant's underside in long, lingering strokes, and how such fawning joy pounded through him as his efforts swiftly took effect. 

For tightly the lieutenant's fingers knotted into his hair as he groaned, and desperately Maedhros tried not to flinch away as he felt the hot, sticky spurt of seed cling across his tongue. He had to swallow, he remembered that, the lieutenant liked it when he swallowed, and as the Maia withdrew from him hard he gulped, and upon his knees there he swayed in his shame as the lieutenant arrayed himself back to decency. 

"A most gratifying effort, Maitimo," the lieutenant purred, he smoothed down his robes and smugly said, "Perhaps now you understand where your uses truly lie." 

Humiliation crumpled in his innards; _a stupid little prince with no talents save for bedplay_ , the Moringotto had told him that once and how bitterly now it stung as he bowed his head before his abuser, as he croaked, "Yes, my lord."

A horrid grin of satisfaction twisted the lieutenant's lips, and for long seconds the Maia looked down upon him. Then with a swell of puissance suddenly the knots at his wrists were severed, and the ropes upon his elbows fell away, and for a moment he staggered, his arms fell limply to his sides and his chest seemed to unlock, he inhaled a whistling gasp of air into lungs worn thin with stress. Yet what cruel seconds later did the pain smash into him, the burst of it was as a sledgehammer rammed through his torso; screaming lines of fire lanced down his arms, they shook through flesh left purple with trauma and how too his chest ached, his back and ribs seized and upon his knees he sagged. 

Silently the lieutenant beheld him, and without further word or glance the Maia departed, and alone within his cell he was left once more. To the ceaseless light the lieutenant left him, and to pain, and loneliness, and the salty taste of seed upon his tongue; another litany in the endless abyss of violence that ground him down, that consumed him, that chewed at him until there was nothing left but bones.

 

* * *

 

Thrice more the orcs came to him; thrice they clattered a plate of food and a beaker of water to the stones, and with such sycophantic gratitude he accepted them. With sore, stiff fingers he would eat, and still he ached from the trauma inflicted upon them. Forcibly he had reunited his knuckles with their sockets, the ghost of that hurt echoed within him still, but though his limbs were weak and lacerated he revelled in the luxury of their freedom. For what seemed like the first time in an age he slept as he wished, he fluffed the hay into a semblance of a mattress and in comfort curled himself upon it, and this time his dreams were not laced with pain. 

It was with somewhat renewed vigour then that he was taken from his cell by a hulking uruk, and as he had many times before he trailed it upon the dreary route down towards the furnaces. Back to labour they set him, and everything was as it had been, grim and endless, once more he tended Angband's colossal furnaces, and sweat dripped from his brow as a blast of searing heat sent cinders flurrying through the air. About those ravenous mouths of flame he worked for many days; he would feed them great shovelfuls of coal, he would stoke their pressures high until they were glutted and bleeding with warmth. He would toil until the great bellow of a horn commanded the day's break, and it end, and once returned to his cell he would sink to the hay with exhaustion. 

His labours were not pleasant; he did not enjoy them. All too eager were the overseers with their whips, and more than once he had yelped in pain as a flail had cloven down across his spine, he had scurried to his task with redoubled urgency as blood soaked into the sweat-stained tunic that clung to his back. At least they did not torment him as they used to, or at least, not so much; he closed his heart to their petty humiliations and bore them with little complaint. It was better to be numb, it was better to ignore them; ignore the vicious clamps once screwed down upon his nipples, ignore the salt rubbed into the bleeding, broken blisters across his hands, ignore the barbed wire wrapped tight about his throat.

It was not so bad, truly, their jeers and catcalls and snide remarks, they were not so bad, because in the roar of those furnaces, in the rushing blast of air vented from their bellies, sometimes there was peace. In the glow of embers raked from glowering coals there was beauty, in the shadows that moiled across the chamber's colossal walls there was wonder, and these fleeting moments he cherished. It was one small thing to cling to, lest utter desolation claim him. 

Because sometimes the nights were not so gentle, sometimes his exhausted sleep was wakened, by groping hands and snarling tongues and insistent flesh he was put to labours of other sorts, and those he reviled the most.    

The sores about his wrists began to close; ugly scabs sloughed away to reveal silvery-pink flesh below, and when upon a time it was deemed that he was truly fit then a strange uruk came to him. It unshackled him from the furnace before which he laboured and it led him away. Into a corral of ten or so other dejected slaves he was pressed, and at their proximity he grew nervous, he kept his head low and his arms cinched in tight as they were marched into unfamiliar tunnels. The stones about them deepened in hue; from slate greys to glossy blacks they changed, commingling with dark browns and shades of blue, and the air grew thicker in their lungs, drawn close with the scent of metal and loam about them. 

Into rougher-hewn tunnels they were herded; the great gashes of industry scraped along their walls, and over a narrow bridge they were pressed, and the orcs behind kept a sharp, watchful pace lest they tarried. Nervously Maedhros peered out over the bridge's rickety balustrades; it jutted out over a sunken pit bottoming out some thirty metres below, and there unfurled an expanse of churning, steaming muds. Wide-eyed he watched as the dirt there boiled, as gouts of noxious vapour hissed and coiled and dissipated, as mud-bubbles rose and burst in startling flurries before spattering back down to their cesspit. With fascination he beheld such phenomena, and perhaps his pace slackened a little, for hard he clung to the bridge's railing as an orc's truncheon rapped down upon his shoulder from behind. 

"Don't dawdle, slave," a deep voice snarled. "There's hungry things in the mud." 

Dread unfurled in Maedhros' stomach, and hurriedly he continued on, and it seemed to him that once he gained the solid rock on the far side of the pit that something large slid through the bubbling mud below. The slightest stir of sinuous motion carved through the earth, something breached, something dived, and from it he turned away in fear.   

Into places where scaffolding clustered upon the tunnel walls like scabrous cockroaches of leather and rusting metal the coffle of slaves was herded, and anxiously Maedhros walked among them. Further and further down torch-lit paths they were pushed; the stone grew damp and sticky underfoot as about them the humidity steadily rose, and soon he noticed the occasional glitter of silver amid the dark rock, the faint remnants of precious metals strung out beneath the earth. In fleeting streaks they darted along the tunnel's length, and onwards the slaves continued until the heat grew nearly unbearable; gasping and sweaty finally they were halted. Peering about the shoulders of the slave in front of him Maedhros glimpsed at last the wide, blunt end of the tunnel, a great expanse of rock that curved up almost twice his height and around twenty times his breadth before him. 

A small, domed alcove was pocked into the rock a few metres adjacent to the tunnel's end, though whether natural or orc-made Maedhros could not tell, and here the slaves were brought. To the curved wall was hammered a quarrying survey, or so Maedhros thought it; the sprawl of mines was marked in thick black ink across the parchment, and as the coffle of slaves was dissembled Maedhros soon guessed their purpose here. 

In a thick, stained tunic and battered pair of boots he was forced to dress, to the tunnel's end he was taken, and there he hovered as a heavy set of manacles was placed about his ankles, and the chain at his collar snapped loose. Along the tunnel's breadth the other slaves endured the same process, and to each was given a study spade or hammer or tool of industry. A heavy pick-axe was thrust into Maedhros' hands by a tall, simian-like orc, and though the thrill of rebellion glinted in his blood as he hefted up what could so easily become a weapon, quickly he stifled that impulse. For he had glimpsed the coiled whip upon the overseer's belt, a gigantic brute of an uruk it was too, and he had seen also the spiked cudgel that it wielded in its meaty hands; he had seen the look in the lieutenant's eyes the last time he had shown any sign of betrayal, and that of all things frightened him the most. 

There would be no escape from this place, he knew it in his heart, and he extinguished that within himself that might wish it be otherwise. 

"Dig!" the overseer bellowed, and swiftly he obeyed, he swung the axe hard into the rock before him and the impact of it was enough to rattle his teeth. Mercilessly hard the orcs pushed them; he sweated and strained and grunted as he levered rock loose from the heavy, crumbly slag that packed it tight, and in a greasy slick of wet earth he pulled them forth. More skill than brute force was required here, the orcs taught them that in shouts and stinging flicks of their whips; a wild blow against solid rock was enough to shatter a tool in hand, nay, it was better to search for a crevice, or to drill into the damp, volcanic loam that lay compact and yet malleable before them. Still their labour was exhausting: his back ached as he pried forth a great slab of rock from its clammy mooring, it felt like an unclean birth as with a squelch it tumbled forth, and hurriedly he staggered back to avoid being crushed as the rock slid to a halt before his feet. 

Each scrape, each swing, each pull of his axe sapped him of strength, sweat poured down his back in the stifling air and when at last the orcs caused for a pause he sank down to the stones in fatigue. Moisture tracked translucent lines through the grime that coated his face, and how he grimaced with discomfort as the pick-axe left his hands glistening with blisters long since ripped raw across the pads of his palms. For a few shaky heartbeats he just tried to breathe, his head swum with the humidity as the blood-warm air stuck in his throat, and how grateful he was for the large cup of water that an orc pushed into his hands. A small measure of food he was given too: a cracked bowl of stodgy rice and thin, dried strips of meat, and thankfully he ate as the sustenance helped to fortify him. Yet all too soon the orcs forced him to his feet again, and though exhaustion dragged at him he laboured on as best as he could. 

The slaves' progress was slow, the clinging earth resented their intrusion, and as the torches burned low in their brackets Maedhros could see the scant metre or so of fresh tunnel that they had excavated. Without emotion he looked upon it, he hefted the pick-axe to rake the newest pile of slickened rubble at his feet to a wheelbarrow bearer behind him, and it was only when at last the way was cleared that he was allowed to rest. How he dreaded the slow walk back to his cell; his calves and thighs ached as dehydration snatched at him, but as the orcs bickered amongst themselves and herded the slaves this way and that, he could sense no impetus to depart. 

Indeed, nervously he stood as a long length of chain was snapped to his collar, as the orcs hammered a metal stake into the tunnel's edge and tethered the chain about it, and to that stake he was bound. Here he and the other slaves would stay, the overseer grunted at them; and anxiously Maedhros watched as the slaves were split apart into intervals of several metres, each staked to the ground and left there in the filth to lie. Uneasily he took to the stones beneath him; how rough and uneven and open they were, they were not like his cell, for here they offered no protection, and phantoms thrown of flickering shadows danced upon their faces. Tremors shuddered through the earth, they moaned like titanic beasts in torment and their every quake set his heart pounding, they set beads of sweat shifting like lice upon his skin, and ever rest eluded him. More than once he tugged upon his hair where it hung lank across his face, he twisted it and pulled at it as once he had done, he wrung from it what little comfort he could in this unfamiliar place, and it helped to steady him a little. 

To the other captives he did not look often; as flotsam broken upon a desolate shore they hunched into themselves, separate and lonely, and from the few glances that he did steal they appeared to be sleeping. Yet somehow he was unsure of them; an orc prowled between them and as it stalked away he was sure that he could hear a strange tapping sound echo through the stones like bony fingertips upon rock, faint and yet rhythmical. Curiosity stirred in his heart but swiftly he grappled it down; he bore scars enough to show the price of failed rebellion, and success in this lair of utmost oppression was an impossibility. It showed in the crooked run of his fingers, in the ugly ridges of tissue that groped across his spine, it showed in the barrenness of his cell where once there was life: to disobey was to be broken once more, to rebel was to bleed, and he had precious little blood left to spill. 

So from that path he turned, and perhaps he chose rightly, or perhaps by his action things might have been different, but the malice of Angband pressed into his heart, and he could not find the courage to stir against it. So passively he lay, and passively he tried to sleep, and around him those little taps sounded, yet he had closed himself to their secrets. 

It was better to be empty, it was better to obey, and he did obey. For countless days he laboured in that infernal tunnel, in filth and squalor he swung his axe, he hefted rubble, he sweated and hurt and through the bowels of the malevolent earth they dug. With dogged stamina the orcs pushed him on, and when at the day's end they tethered him anew to his stake nearby he all but collapsed with exhaustion, and away into blank dreams he would drift. Yet what reprieve came from such toil was unwelcome, and fervently he wished it were not so: break after break he heard the slaves tapping to each other through the earth, and how their little insurrections disturbed him. It made him nervous, it set him on edge, and how cruelly did that discomfort come to pass as upon his awakening he noticed two empty tethers, two broken lengths of chain. 

Of them the orcs said nothing, they only snapped at him to eat faster, to move, yet upon this waking he was led from the tunnel's end and not towards it, and dread clustered in his heart with his every footfall. To walk with such confining manacles upon his ankles was awkward yet somehow he managed, and through dark, echoing caverns he was led. Through places where machinery roared he was pulled, where sparks flew and alchemical solutions hissed and among them grotesqueries walked; creatures of corruption, things with jaws eroded down to glistening bone, things with abscesses weeping pus and reddened gore, things with bowed legs and aberrant limbs; gnashing, maloccluded teeth and eyes milky with cataracts. Horror trembled in his heart as he was pulled past them, and hurriedly he shuffled on, and eventually he was led into a large, airy chamber, and what he glimpsed there dismayed him all the same. 

Beneath a gigantic chandelier dripping with melted candlewax a raised platform stood, and upon it two slaves were strung; their wrists were shackled cruciform to cruel wooden scaffolds such that their naked backs were left awfully exposed to the chamber, and before them an audience milled. Dread redoubled in Maedhros' stomach as he was pushed into a tight corral of slaves clustered at the base of the platform, with shouts and bludgeons the orcs commanded them to kneel in rows of ten or so, and as Maedhros sank reluctantly to his knees the leash at his collar was attached to a great length of chain that stretched the width of the corral.  

Behind the assembled slaves a host of orcs were gathered, they leered and bickered and only as a gargantuan thug of an uruk strode upon the platform that a restless, hungry silence fell. Before the two captive slaves the uruk halted; gross, heaving muscles flexed as it turned, as it spat down at their feet, and to the expectant crush of orcs and slaves it roared, "Two snaga, two _shokk-kral;_ they plotted to escape! They ran like cowards, they traitored, and how easily they were caught!" 

A cheer of approval burst from the leering orcs, it crashed over the heads of the silent, kneeling slaves, and the uruk's foul fangs squashed into a grin. "Caught, eh! Now, see what punishment the lords take with traitors, with _gurvutzlim,_ with refusers and waste! Watch!" Deeper then the uruk's voice became, and darker; it glared down upon the slaves and how Maedhros shuddered away from its gaze as it said, "Watch, and consider. Let this be a lesson to you to heed your masters, and a warning of what awaits if you would fail us!" 

At the sight of the metal-strung whips unfurled in the ruddy light Maedhros' blood curdled in his veins. Two uruks scarce lesser than their foreman strode forward, those brutal things uncoiled in their hands, and the glint of the little shards of metal that were woven into their lengths sickened him to his stomach. And what awful, awful horror transfixed him as those whips reached out, he could only watch in dumb, appalled stupor as those evil things clove down as one, as they punched through air and flesh. The _impact_ of them jolted him; the smack of cord and metal into skin, the _howls_ as the captives buckled, as red exploded across their backs in two gaudy, crazed lines. Sweat broke over Maedhros' brow and hard he fought to still the tremble of his fingers as another nauseating crack split through the air, he clenched his hands into tight fists upon his thighs as the slaves' shrieks clove through his heart. Again and again the orcs struck them, with such sadistic glee in their eyes they flayed flesh from bone, they sliced through muscle, and the screams, the screams, the scrabble of shocked, slipping feet upon the platform and the _screams_ , they shook him apart. Desperately Maedhros gritted his teeth, he bowed his head and closed his eyes but he could not block out those sounds, the wheel and wet, smacking thud of the whips, the breathy, guttural howls and the broken sobs between them, the half-formed pleas for mercy. 

Blood splattered across the stage as on and on the punishment continued; Maedhros' knuckles stood taut and white through his skin and trembling there he knelt, nausea lurched in his stomach and it was all that he could do not to vomit as a solid, squelching smack resounded through the chamber, as a gurgling, hysterical whine choked through the air. His nails dug bloody crescent-moons into the palms of his hands as he bore witness to such repugnant abuse, the clamour of it ached within his chest as memories clawed through him, ghostly sensations stabbed through his spine, and yet for these unfortunates it would only be worse. There would be no salvation for these luckless slaves, the lieutenant would not intervene for them, there would be no respite in Styrrak's infirmary, no quiet place of healing, no; only weeping, discarded flesh, the isolated, agonising process of repair when all goodly nature sought to cease.      

It was hideous, it was near unthinkable, yet deeper still hypocrisy slid; it sliced like a knife through his guts and left him spilling. For beneath his skin some darker emotion crawled, something feral, something awful, and how he wished that he could deny it, denounce it, claw it out of himself; the truth of it polluted him down to his bones. For he knelt, and he listened, and some tiny part of him _revelled_ in it. 

There were only sobs now; harsh, choking inhalations of breath, and how he was corroded, how corrupt he was. He knelt there like a good little slave and he watched, he witnessed, and he was only grateful that it was not him. It was not him that was punished, it was not him that was hurting, in those terse, instinctive moments that was all that mattered, and how that realisation destroyed him.

Cowed and hating he was led from the hall, away from dripping silence and gore, the red ruins of flesh. Amid a cluster of other ashen slaves he walked, and each was adrift, shaken, though bitter was his mind among them. He scratched at himself; he tasted like guilt, like iron. 

Back to his labour the orcs set him, and metre by agonising metre the tunnel wormed on, until at last they unearthed that which they sought. For upon a time when Maedhros sank his pick-axe into the claggy mud he pulled it away to reveal something grey and light beyond it, and at it the orcs grew excited. For endless hours they cleared the way, mud and rubble slid aside to reveal a large seam of glossy, silvery rock, and swiftly the orcs called a halt as its foremost edge was fully exposed. Wearily Maedhros stood aside as the overseers strode forward, as they inspected the rock and talked quietly amongst themselves, and how his knees and back ached as the minutes drew on.

He sat himself down as heedless of either himself or the other slaves a few of the orcs departed, only to return with more of their number; surveyor's maps and quarrying ledgers were brought forth and pored over, and Maedhros shied away from the orcs' activity as something else stalked among them. For down the tunnel something came, it sloughed off mud as if in great layers of diseased flesh, it stank of raw, soaking earth, and Maedhros pressed himself back against the tunnel wall as its unearthly presence passed him by.

To the newly exposed rock that thing came, it pressed a lumpy, misshapen limb against it, and after a few taut moments it seemed to sigh; a noisome exhalation of rank air whistled through the tunnel, and at such a fey proclamation the orcs burst into whoops of glee. An exultant babble consumed them, and warily Maedhros watched as that earthen thing shuffled back up the tunnel, leaving nothing but the swarm of the orcs around this most exciting discovery. Quite what they had unearthed he never knew; it did not concern him save that after a long while an orc came to him, and blankly he watched as it unfastened the manacles that had long encircled his ankles. 

The absence of their weight was strange, he felt almost unbalanced as the orc latched a chain to his collar and drew him away, and worry turned within his stomach as throughout the tunnel he glimpsed the group of slaves disbanded, as each waited at the hand of an orc and was doomed to some new fate. For now only anxiety nibbled at his heart as back through the labyrinthine maze of tunnels and chambers that sprawled beneath Angband's dark heart the orc led him; they spilled out into a colossal chamber and the space of it made him quail. It was so big, so empty, his footsteps echoed through its motionless air and the vastness of it unnerved him.

In the orc's shadow he stepped quickly, he hunkered down into himself and simply endured as onwards he was drawn, until at last the slate walls around him drew close once more, and a tinge of recognition clotted in his heart. For surely now he knew cobbled stones beneath him, he had seen the wooden doors studded into the walls so many hundreds of times, and as a door loomed open before him how aching familiar it was, he almost choked with the delight of it.       

Into his own small cell the orc led him, and the stones enveloped him in their grey embrace. The hay was crisp upon the floor, the rune bled out its wan light as the uruk shackled him to the wall once more, as usual, _as usual_ , it was his place, it was safe, the chain spilled at his feet as amid the hay he sat, and the rattle and slide of the bolt within the lock sent such relief spiralling through his heart that it sickened him. One hundred and forty-three, he counted the stones as he had always done and they were the same, so maybe he was the same, although he was not so sure of that. And ever that doubt chewed at him as he settled himself down amidst his hay and his solitude; his gaze flickered to the culvert pocked into the adjacent wall and a twinge of melancholy stung his heart. It was different, he thought, but it was the same; it was still empty, it was empty like him, and into maudlin mood he lapsed away. 

Five times the orcs came and left, they delivered him food with grudging dispassion and all the greater grew the tedium of his existence. Over and over he counted the stones, he scrubbed the filth from his body with a clumped wad of hay, he picked at the ragged fringe of his tunic, he tugged at the chain and scratched his nails over his skin; he did a thousand other numbing little things to try to fill the yawning hours, but still it felt as if he would turn to rust. 

Creaking and sore indeed were his limbs worn stiff with disuse when a strange orc entered his cell. In dark leathers it was dressed, its hair was bound behind its ears with strips of fluttering cloth, and how odd it smelt, like spices, he thought. The heady scent of cloves and cinnamon wafted from it as with a tiny spark of puissance at its neatly clipped fingernails it broke his chain near the wall, and bade him follow. Meekly he trailed it, yet curious was his mind as still those sharp spices caught in his nose, as the orc turned him down paths yet untrodden through Angband's halls. 

A large, fat spider danced across a doorframe as he passed beneath it and hurriedly he stepped past it, and he raised his guard as the orc led him into more populated areas of the fortress. Servile orcs scurried to and fro about him, groups of chattering goblins loped with ape-like sinew past him, and as the grey slate walls about him slowly morphed to those of greater refinement, to neat brick or polished marble, distant sounds of industry drifted through their facades. With dawning curiosity he was pulled about, and warily he trailed the orc through a large set of doors carved into a rearing face of rock almost thrice his height, and into a massive hall they came. 

Steam hissed in great billowing clouds from pots and pans left bubbling, pottery clattered and fires burned, the shock of it blurred in Maedhros' eyes, for the entire chamber seethed with activity. Their purpose was plain: into the fortress' vast kitchens he was led, and wide-eyed he stared at the immense ovens that belched forth from the hall's flank, at the huge cauldrons left simmering over open fire-pits, at the carcass of some monstrous beast left rotating upon a spit, its skin glistening as it was bathed in a glaze of honey and spice. Thick and sweet was the air and deeply Maedhros inhaled; the irresistible scent of fresh-baked bread melded with rich herbs, with roasting meat; so decadent was it that hunger growled in his stomach. Past stacks of plates and platters piled high above his head the orc led him, through great rows of servants kneading dough, chopping vegetables, slicing meat; he looked upon them all with interest but then disquiet grew in his heart. 

For as he looked he noticed that not all were orcs, among their foul race were dotted those of his own kindred, though their likenesses were obscured. Strange, leather-looking contraptions were fitted over their faces, the glint of chains shone at their wrists and throats, and hurriedly Maedhros looked away as a tug at his collar pulled him onwards. Towards a vast oven laid into the furthest wall of the hall the orc led him, and both fear and wonder swirled in Maedhros' blood as he stared up at the creature that lazed above it. For draped upon a high mantle-piece a huge black cat lounged, it sat contentedly in the rising warmth from below, yet its green eyes were sharp and watchful, and it surveyed the room with majesty. 

He had seen this creature before, he was sure of it: Tevildo, yes, that was its name, that was what the lieutenant had said, and the great cat had smelled him then so long ago and it had known him, his rage and his humiliation, and it knew him now, for as he drew nearer to it then its gaze turned to him. A pink, barbed tongue licked across fangs the length of his arm, and its tail curled in gluttonous contempt as the orc drew him to a halt before it.    

"A new 'un for you, m'lord," the orc called upwards, and behind it Maedhros stood silent. "From the mines, 'e is. No more progress down there 'til the bosses sort out the metallurgy and the quotas and the mapping there like. So they said bring 'im here, make 'im work. Fresh meat!" 

Down upon him the cat stared, its slit-like pupils narrowed as it beheld him, and suddenly a great hum filled the air. It rumbled through his ribcage, it was enough to make his skin crawl with the sheer percussion of it, and upon the mantle the creature flexed its paws. Claws like ivory daggers tapped upon the granite, and in a rich, laconic voice the cat replied, "Very good, Azrinn. Another little mouse to squeak with the rest. And what a delicious mouse too, hmm, so very _dripping_ with flavour." The scorn in the cat's voice was unmistakable, and a ruddy flush spread up over Maedhros' cheeks as it purred, "Poor, poor Maitimo. Perhaps your taste was not so sweet after all."    

Shame bloomed in his guts as softly Tevildo chuckled, as the orc before him smirked, and he kept his gaze fixed firmly to the floor as the cat continued, "See him outfitted, Azrinn, and be sure to muzzle him tight. Naughty mice are so often tempted to nibble the cheese. Then put him to work somewhere, though something simple, mind." Saliva glistened upon the cat's fangs as it grinned down at him. "Mairon tells me that this one is not too bright." 

Gall flushed through Maedhros' stomach, and balefully he simmered as the orc before him bowed, and with a lazy blink Tevildo dismissed it, and to a store-room dotted into the side of the great chamber he was taken. From a stockpile tended by a gruff, squat goblin his captor gathered a fresh shirt and pair of trousers and commanded him to strip, and discarded his old clothes with a grimace of distaste. Once he was dressed it plucked up a strange leather contraption, and how he balked as the orc held it up to his face. 

The thing was like a dog's muzzle sculpted to elven flesh: a flat metal plate jutted inwards from a wide leather curvature and instinctively Maedhros shook his head as the orc held it up, as he felt a tangle of straps splay out to envelop him. Swiftly though his protest was curtailed, for the goblin lashed out at him, a cudgel cracked across the back of his knees and set him staggering. To his knees then he fell, and in those breathless moments of shock the orcs moved quickly; the goblin held his head fast while the orc Azrinn lifted the contraption to his face. 

All too invasive was the plate that fed into his mouth, it pressed down hard upon his tongue and kept it immobile, and as the thing's straps were cinched tight at the back of his head the wide leather mouth-guard of the bridle pulled flush against his lips. Under his chin a cutting strap ran, and hatefully he glared as this was fastened also, his lower jaw was slammed shut upon the tongue-plate, and he snorted in indignation as the goblin sealed shut the device with a small padlock left dangling at the base of his skull. Saliva frothed behind the mouth-guard as he fought against it, he wriggled and flexed his tongue beneath the plate that held it fast, and with cruel laughter his captors watched him struggle. 

Soon though he settled, he could not slide his tongue from beneath its surface no matter how hard he might try, and down into his face the goblin sneered, "If you fuss next time, we'll spike the tongue-guard, eh! See how you like that!" 

An angry, fearful flush coloured Maedhros' cheeks, yet sullenly then he stood as he was told, and allowed the goblin to scrub clean his bare hands and arms with a rough-bristled brush and pail of soapy water. It was better not to fight, he told himself, and though he still probed and pushed his tongue against the plate that trapped it, placidly enough he followed the orc where it led. To a giant, gently simmering vat of gruel amid a cluster of cook-fires the orc tethered him, and into his hands it pressed a large wooden spoon, and commanded him to stir. 

"Don't let it scald," the orc growled as it turned to leave. "Be a beating in it if you do." 

Resentfully Maedhros glared at its retreating back, but devoid of choice he obeyed, and for what seemed a slow eternity he stirred the bland, sour-smelling slop around the cauldron. It was dull work, and soon his attention began to wander, and though he still poked and mixed the gruel before him, furtively he watched the kitchen in its activities.

There was less pain here than in other places it seemed, and for that he was glad; the orcs were more apt to cuff or pinch a lagging slave than to flay them, and there was warmth here, and noise, and familiar things, things that he understood; bread was pulled in steaming batches of loaves from the ovens' gaping mouths, dark wooden barrels were rolled up a ramp opening into some subterranean cellar, great haunches of meat were skewered to roast over open flames or were filleted for their finer cuts, and their bones cast to stock-pots left stewing over smouldering coals. Over it all the great feline presided, Tevildo indeed was a prince amongst his realm, but from the cat Maedhros' gaze slipped as nearby an oven was slotted open, and from it a huge tray of roasted mushrooms was pulled, and how his heart lurched at the smell of them. 

That sweet, earthy scent, how long had he known it for; Finno had loved roasted mushrooms, he remembered, and melancholy stabbed through his heart at the thought of it. Finno, his brothers, his father, his _family_ ; they scarcely seemed real anymore. Just swirling memories, just ghosts of a past that he could not remember, _caurë, caurë_ , doom laid upon him, and hard he swallowed down around the muzzle to stifle the emotion that sewed his throat closed. He simply stirred and stirred and shrunk away; doom stepped in his shadow as after hours of labour an orc came to him, it returned him back to his cell and removed his muzzle, and the silence that he found amid those blank stone walls had all the comfort of a grave.

 

* * *

 

It was not so bad, he thought, though the days trudged wearily onwards, truly his time in the kitchens was not so bad. It was lesser work than the mines: the tending of cookpots or the scrubbing of pans was far gentler than the swing of axes, and in that respite he thrived. Still the humiliation of the muzzle was to be endured; every day that foul thing was buckled onto his face, every day he tended such plentiful, decadent fare and was given only cast-off scraps or a bland slop of porridge to sate the hunger that growled in his belly. It was not pleasant, but it could have been worse, he knew this all too well and so meekly he worked under Tevildo's watchful gaze, and he tried his best at whatever task was given to him.

A tall pile of crockery was stacked into his arms by a belligerent orc, and carefully now he traced his way through the bustling kitchen to the store-rooms, to discard his burden and return for yet more. Thrice now he had made his shuffling way, and how his heart pounded within his chest if his stride was too eager, if the plates should wobble; he steadied himself with savage discipline before continuing safely on. Yet fatigue dragged at him now, and hard he fought to still the tremble in his arms as he inched around a gang of chattering orcs. And perhaps his care was his undoing, perhaps he lingered too long, for with a snort of laughter an orc stepped backwards, it knocked into his elbow with jarring force, and for one hideous moment the pile of plates teetered, and his blood splintered in his veins as he felt his arm give way. 

The crash of breaking crockery was damning, inescapable; how awful it was as hundreds of alarmed, gleeful faces suddenly turned to him. All the kitchen paused in its fury, all the air stood still upon the baited breath of hundreds as Tevildo's great eyes locked upon him, and the venom in them was shrivelling. Aghast he could but tremble as the cat rose to its feet, the muzzle locked about his face muffled his squeak of terror as in one fluid pounce the cat surged forward, as it landed amid the shattered pottery that surrounded him like some obscene halo, and black hatred glinted in its eyes.     

"My, my," the cat purred; the force of its exhalation trembled through his ribs and transfixed with horror he stood as it licked its furry lips, as its long whiskers twitched. "What a clumsy mouse indeed." 

Through the swathe of broken shards it stalked, it circled him, ceramic crunched under its paws and how desperately he wanted to run, to flee, to hide himself away. Yet fear unmanned him, it strangled adrenaline from his muscles and he could do naught but yelp as suddenly the cat lunged forward, as its teeth closed about his collar at the nape of his neck and he was flicked upwards. Instinct spurred him to lift his arms, to jam his fingers between the collar and his windpipe to preserve even a scrap of breath as like a deviant kitten carried by its scruff Tevildo swung him upwards and away; in several great, agonising leaps they traversed the kitchen until in a spacious corner the cat settled, it opened its mouth and sent him spinning to the stones below. 

With a bone-jarring crunch he landed, fear spiked through his heart and on shaking hands and knees he scrambled backwards, and how he howled with terror as he felt teeth close upon his ankle, as Tevildo lifted him up once more. Clean into the air the cat flipped him up, it was as if he weighed no more than a shrew, and how he squeaked as one mighty paw caught him in a tremendous blow across the face.    

The force of it left him reeling; blood poured from his nose as he crumpled down to the floor and there he could only gasp; too hard was that blow, too hard, it jammed the tongue-guard towards the back of his throat and desperately he scrabbled to loosen it. He spluttered and gagged and tore at himself until somehow he wrenched it forwards, and for a few coughing breaths he lay there motionless.

"What use have I for foolish mice?" the cat mused; beneath it he struggled to rise and with one lazy flick of its paw it batted him aside, it sent him skidding across the floor to crumple into the wall. "String them up, I say! String them up! Let them hang! Then we'll see how they squeak, oh, how deliciously. That will teach them how to scurry!"  

A muffled cry caught in his throat as suddenly the tramp of booted feet surrounded him, he kicked and struggled as iron claws clamped down upon his arms, yet to little avail, as with bruising force his wrists were seized and bound together at the small of his back. A length of rope was snatched through his collar at the nape of his neck and secured somewhere above him, and desperately he bucked as he felt it tauten, as in great hauls he was slowly dragged upwards. His hands fought within their bonds as instinct screamed at him to bring them to his neck, to free his throat, to breathe, yet helplessly bound he was as the orcs hauled him higher, as tighter and tighter the collar bit into him, as it strangled the breath from his lungs. Thin, frantic snorts of breath emanated from behind the muzzle as snared by their makeshift noose the orcs left him to dangle, his toes only just remained planted upon the floor and desperately he struggled to balance, to take the strain from his neck, to draw new breath; tears stung in his eyes and blood smeared across his tongue and with what violence did the air come smashing out of his lungs as Tevildo's paw crunched into his stomach. 

The air screeched out of his chest, his toes slipped from the floor and truly then he hung; his neck howled in agony as for a few short seconds it bore his weight fully, he spluttered and shook and jigged like a beached fish upon a line until somehow he found the floor once more. For a moment the air trickled back into his lungs, until the blow of a whip sliced across his ribs, and oh how he crumpled. Blood snorted from his nose, it dripped to the floor beneath him as helplessly he spun, he struggled and floundered until his neck felt that it might break, his lungs seared within his chest as again and again they struck him, he hovered there on the screaming edge of suffocation and they did not relent. 

Bones groaned within his neck and through the anguish that engulfed him how he wished that they would do more, he wished that they would just be severed, just come apart. It would be so much easier, it would hurt so much less; he kicked and scrabbled and keened out his misery until with a great heave the orcs released him, and to the floor he tumbled.  

A shock of air flooded into his lungs, blood flecked down his shirt as he panted, as he sobbed, and grievously he shied as the orcs neared him once more, as they cut the bonds at his wrists. With shaking fingers he held himself, he pressed into the traumatised, purpling flesh about his throat as if somehow that could soothe him, and he just wished that he could disappear as over him Tevildo purred, as the great cat stalked away and left him curled there in his agony.

Senseless, senseless; the aching limp back to his cell was a bleary age; a smirking orc hooked a short leash to his collar and drew him forth, and every tug of the metal band against his flesh sent delirious waves of pain pulsing through him. Beneath the straps of his muzzle he could feel his cheek swell, he could feel blood crust over his lips, dizzy and sick he stumbled on and it was all too much when at last he slumped down amid his hay, when the orc refastened his collar to the chain upon the wall. It was too late when he finally roused himself; still the muzzle clasped about his face and he only thought to protest as the door slammed shut before him, and into numb desolation he sank back.   

The straps cut into his cheeks left heavy with bruising, drying blood itched upon his skin, and for how long he lay there motionless he knew not. It was only too soon, far, _far_ too soon when the door swung open once more, when a fearsome uruk snatched him up, it pulled him to his feet and heedless of his squawk of protest hauled him from the cell. Every touch of the collar against the tender flesh of his neck was an abomination, he panted and bleated and mewled with the pain of it as into another cell the uruk pulled him, and at what awaited him there his heart plummeted to the stones.

For upon one elegant heel the lieutenant turned to meet him; blond hair fell loose over the handsome shoulders of formal robes dusted crimson and black, a hand decadently laden with rings rested upon a high stone table laid into the centre of the room, and at the look in the lieutenant's eyes Maedhros blanched. No; no, no, no, it couldn't be him, _it couldn't be him_ ; giddy, clamouring panic flared in Maedhros' veins at the lieutenant's haughty stare, and he swayed where he stood as a sudden wave of faintness swept through him. 

A whine of utmost dismay flickered in his throat as bloodied and dishevelled the Maia regarded him standing there, and a mingled look of shock and disgust slowly moiled over the lieutenant's face. 

"Oh, for..." the Maia's speech trailed off into an exasperated sigh, he shook his head in annoyance before gesturing towards a metal grille set into the floor at the rear of the chamber, and the chains that dangled from the ceiling above it. "Put him there," the lieutenant snapped, and dutifully the uruk nodded. "Strip him, get him cleaned up. And get that thing off his face. I will return shortly; there will be some extra effort required here, so it seems." 

Dread trickled through Maedhros' stomach at such a pronouncement, and he stumbled aside as the lieutenant stalked past him and off into the corridors beyond. Swiftly then he was pulled forward, and reluctantly he stood over the grille as the uruk fastened his hands into the manacles above. The metal was cool beneath his toes, it set him on edge, and how he flinched as the uruk strode behind him and in one great heave ripped his shirt in two; it split down his spine and was cast aside, and roughly the uruk pulled his trousers down his legs. Discomfort tinged the tips of his ears pink as naked and awkward he was left so crudely exposed, and he did not have nearly enough time to brace himself before a great deluge of water came tipping down upon him. It sluiced in lukewarm streams from his hair, it splattered in grimy rivulets down his back, and the uruk began to clean him roughly with a sour-smelling soap and rag.

What feeble, wriggling protest he made as its hands swept too hard over the injured flesh of his stomach was quenched with a growl; his teeth gritted hard about the tongue-guard as it swiped down over his groin, as it groped between his thighs, as it scrubbed the tender, bruise-mottled skin of his ribs. It was as the second downpour of water was tipped upon him that the lieutenant returned with a large wooden box his hands, and warily Maedhros eyed it as it was placed upon the table. At the back of his head the uruk fumbled, and with a groan of discomfort the muzzle was pulled free of his face; reddened saliva scraped his mouth raw, and with difficulty he swallowed it down. 

The lieutenant's eyes rolled as he spied the dark, livid bruises that clouded over Maedhros' cheek and eye-socket, the blood that scabbed at the base of his nose, and to the uruk the lieutenant commanded, "Bring him here."   

The Maia turned to grasp something concealed within the box, and worry squirmed in Maedhros' veins as naked and dripping he was released from his bonds and forced to sit upon the table, his legs hanging over its edge. Like a cornered animal he hunched into himself, his hands knitted together over his groin to conceal himself, and as the lieutenant looked back to him what a horrid, insidious smile curved over his lips. The lieutenant's eyebrow quirked in mirth and there were no words, there was no need for words; shame sliced through Maedhros' innards and left him gutted, and miserably still he sat as the lieutenant lifted a wetted cloth to his face, and with surprising gentleness wiped at the blood beneath his nose. 

The cloth stained red as the lieutenant slowly cleaned him, all trace of blood was carefully removed from his skin, and thoughtfully then the Maia eyed the gaudy, trauma-speckled bruise upon his cheek. From the box then was drawn a strange tin, a shimmer of flesh-toned powder puffed into the air as the lieutenant unscrewed its lid, and at it Maedhros stared. 

"My lord," he began softly, uncertainly, "what - " 

"Be silent," the lieutenant said, and though his tone was light Maedhros knew better than to continue. So timidly he sat as with a fresh, airy sponge the lieutenant dusted the powder over his cheek and eye; it settled upon skin, it painted over bruises, it swept evil away in porcelain deception, and it was only as the lieutenant reached for a pot of viscous, red ochre and smeared it over his lips that truly Maedhros realised what the Maia was doing. And what horror fluttered in his stomach as the lieutenant painted him, the clay upon his lips was sticky and how cheap it felt, how dirty, how _perverse_ ; he winced as the lieutenant dragged a comb through his tangled hair, as he smudged an artful finishing of ochre upon his cheeks. 

Like giving colour to a corpse, he thought it, and with growing trepidation he stood as the lieutenant dressed him in a plain, neat tunic and trousers. 

How innocent he must look, he thought bitterly, like a doll, like a good little slave, yet through the humiliation that scorched in his veins it was only as the lieutenant grasped a short leather leash that truly he protested. He drew himself away as the Maia reached for his collar; pain crackled through his throat with even that small shift upon his skin, and plaintively he croaked, "Please, my lord... my... my throat, please..." 

With pursed lips the lieutenant inspected him, cold eyes skated the heavy, florid bruises that ringed his neck beneath the collar's band, and then the Maia sighed. 

"Very well," he said slowly. "If you wish it be so, then now is your chance to prove your obedience to me. This once, and by my mercy alone, you may walk at my side unchained." 

"Thank you, my lord," Maedhros replied eagerly, too eagerly; the sound of it was piteous in his ears. 

From him the lieutenant turned, he wrapped the leather leash about his wrist, and dark was his tone as he said, "Run from me, and you will never walk again." 

Fearfully Maedhros recalled those slaves in the mines; the wet smack of the whip into flesh and the screams, those paralysing, gouging, awful screams; he remembered that foul brace bolted into his thigh where the Moringotto had shattered it, that white, searing snap of agony; he thought of what worse the lieutenant might do, and gravely he replied, "Yes, my lord." 

"Come, then," the Maia said impatiently, and started towards the door, and hurriedly Maedhros shuffled to his side. 

Through Angband's vast halls they walked, ever winding up throughout the fortress, and closely Maedhros followed the lieutenant where he led. It almost felt natural, he thought sadly, it almost felt right; because sometimes the lieutenant could be kind to him, sometimes, if he was good enough, if he made the lieutenant happy, and urgently he clung to that nebulous thread of favour. Tight and cautious were his steps as they trailed through the high-vaulted corridors of Angband's upper levels; he shrank into the lieutenant's side as the ways about him became more populous, more cluttered with life as deeper into the fortress' heart they plunged.

And soon enough they turned into a grand corridor that Maedhros felt was familiar; trepidation crept through his heart and perhaps he slowed a little, perhaps he tripped, for viciously the lieutenant glared at him, and swiftly he scrambled to right himself and continue on. Yet ever that disquiet worried at him, and when at last a huge, ornate set of doors swung into view then truly he balked.

A blaring fanfare sounded upon hideous, twisted trumpets, the brand upon his chest flared with pain and at the lieutenant's side he staggered, with pallid cheeks and wide, staring eyes he looked upon the doors to Angband's throne.   

He couldn't go there, horror clawed in his veins, he couldn't go there again, not now, not ever; terror stole the strength from his legs but then how fluidly the lieutenant turned to him, and soft was his voice, and how desperately Maedhros clung to it. 

"Will you come with me gently?" the lieutenant asked, all sweet and dusky and understanding, and with a wry smile he offered his right hand for Maedhros to take. And what abhorrence glowed in Maedhros' heart as for a moment he stood, and wished that he could go back to his cell, back to the mines, the kitchens, _back to anywhere but here_ , but he couldn't, he couldn't, he could only go on. 

Endure, _endure_ : hard he swallowed down the lump in his throat, and with quaking fingers he took the lieutenant's hand. 

"Good," the Maia smiled, their palms pressed lightly together and how tender it was, how awful, almost as lovers hand in hand they stood, and the lieutenant said, "Take heart, Maitimo. Comport yourself well, for you are in noble company tonight. This eve you will stay by my side, and I would not have you stray far." 

Both dread and relief turned in Maedhros' stomach at those words, and wearily he nodded, and as the lieutenant strode towards the opening doors helplessly he trailed along at his side. It was all that he could do not to cringe as he passed that infernal doorway; the sight of Angband's jagged throne set him reeling, the brand pulsed upon his chest in deadening waves of pain and it took all of his concentration simply to match the lieutenant's pace as onwards into the hall he was marched. 

At the base of the imperial dais a great dining table was set, it groaned under steaming platters laden with food and wine and ale laid before many orcish guests, and fear churned in Maedhros' stomach as he beheld the fiend that sat at the table's head. For there the Moringotto loomed, resplendent in robes of deepest midnight and crowned in iron and glittering thievery he talked amongst the assembled guests, and bile rose in Maedhros' throat as the memories of all of the Moringotto's cruelties crushed through him.   

Flames leapt bright and hungry from torches bracketed to the hall's grand pillars, candles illumined the table in a viscous, bloody light, and as he and the lieutenant drew near the Moringotto lifted up a jewelled goblet in greeting, and the orcish guests arose from their seats. 

 _"Welcome, Mairon, my most noble lieutenant,"_ the Moringotto said, and rich was his voice, dark and elegant and evil, and shrunken into the lieutenant's side Maedhros withered beneath it. The orcs made gestures of obeisance towards the lieutenant according to their custom; one clad in swathes of rawhide and fur touched its fist to its bent forehead, one attired in a cowl-like drapery of dun-coloured cloth made a complex gesture with its fingers in the air before it; many such obtuse greetings were made in deep respect about the table, and gallantly the lieutenant nodded in return. _"Come, come,"_ the Moringotto continued, _"all be seated. The hour runs late, and we have much left to discuss ere time whittles us away."_

Forward the lieutenant started, and reluctantly Maedhros followed; the Maia's fingers gripped tight about his own and forcibly pulled him onwards, and as they circled the table to the empty chair upon the Moringotto's right hand, a pale orc further down the table called, "What is this creature that you have brought, Mairon-khur?" 

A murmur of interest rippled through the guests, drinks were lifted and heads turned, and how horrible were the orcs' motley eyes upon him, the Moringotto's gaze was full of slow, contemplative gluttony, and how they all seemed to dissect him. 

Yet worse still was the smile that crossed the lieutenant's lips, as propelling Maedhros forward into the full view of all assembled he said, "Honoured guests, friends from farthest lands and worthy kin of old, I have the pleasure of introducing to you one of our most prized possessions. The rumour of the upstart elf, Fëanáro son of Finwë, I am sure that you have heard, though his arrogance be not come to plague your distant, prosperous lands." 

At this pronouncement many of the orcs drew themselves tall in their seats, they craned their necks to look upon Maedhros with such hunger in their eyes, and how awfully exposed he felt before them as the Moringotto smirked, and the lieutenant continued, "From Valinórë across the sea Fëanáro came in wrath, he dared to challenge the might of Angband and of our venerable lord, and in squalor and ruin he perished. Yet whelps he fathered before he came to these lands, vain followers of their father, and to prevent war of their own declaration they in their arrogance sought to sue: for the relinquishment of the Silmarilli, and the death of all who held them were their demands. Nay, they were fools indeed, and nay was the answer of Angband, and from the wreck of their treaty we salvaged one amusing whelp indeed." 

"Friends, guests, I present to you what was once the heir-apparent to the Noldorin throne, Nelyafinwë son of Fëanáro, and long now has it been our pleasure to host him within these halls." 

Mutters of intrigue broke about the table, and how sick was the Moringotto's grin at his side; the light of the Silmarils washed over him and it itched like disease upon his skin. The lieutenant's hand clutched about his own and his grip was blistering, and what dreadful shame coloured his cheeks red as the orcs peered at him, as one croaked, "A delicate thing, ain't he." 

"So placid," another mused; a she-orc clad in stiff, leather plates of maroon hue. "I'd've thought there'd be more fire in his belly! More fight! _Ghash-ruknarr_!"

" _Nay, nay, Jinthrul"_ the Moringotto chuckled, and his eyes glimmered with foul mirth as he sipped from his goblet. " _A spark of fire existed there once perhaps, but now most thoroughly extinguished. He is quite tame, would you not agree, Mairon?"_

"Oh yes, my lord," the lieutenant purred, and such was the gluttony in his voice, that horrid, gloating, _knowing_ pride that Maedhros' ears burned pink. "Very tame indeed." 

"Tame, eh?" a rotund orc boomed from near the end of the table; a gnarled leg of game was clutched in its greasy fingers as it said, "What are you feeding him then? Too skinny!" 

Dark laughter resounded about the table, and a sallow-skinned uruk grinned, "Ah, Lun-moruth, you are too always soft on them! He gets what he is due, I'm sure. The poor wretch is simply shy in such mighty company!" 

"Does he smile?" a sharp-voiced she-orc snapped; with large, avian-like eyes she peered at him with fierce intensity, and into the bundle of shredded, rough-sewn rags that shrouded her she settled herself. "Or does he just have that constant look of dejection on his face?"

"Looks like a slapped arse!" the rotund orc bellowed; and how the hilarity that circled the table then festered in his blood, it hollowed out his veins, and loathing frothed in his stomach as beside him even the lieutenant sniggered. 

"Oh, Lun, you wound me," the Maia smiled, and suddenly his fingers closed hard over Maedhros' own. "Go on, Maitimo, show them all your pretty smile now." 

Shame stalled in his heart but painfully tight the lieutenant's fingers dug into his hand, and he forced a fleeting, tight smile across his lips. Before him the orcs cooed, they guffawed and drank and chuckled in their seats, and with what cruelty they revelled in his ignominy.

"Very good," the lieutenant purred, and with the orcs mirth well sated he forsook Maedhros' hand to slide into his seat, and gestured then to the floor upon his left. "Come, kneel here."

Balefully Maedhros obeyed; he held himself stiffly as he sank down to his knees, but swiftly it seemed that he was forgotten as above him the lords and their guests talked of other lofty things. Often their language eluded him: they spoke in a strange, corrupt mode of most ancient Quenya, and soon he tired of trying to discern meaning from their words. He would not understand them anyway, he thought bitterly; he just waited below like a good, obedient slave, and though his stomach growled with hunger and his thighs cramped and the brand ached upon his chest he simply knelt there, demure and passive. 

The lieutenant had granted him safety, he grasped at the thought, the lieutenant had told him that he would stay, that he would be close, so he must be good, he must; so concentrated was he upon his thoughts that the lieutenant's motion at his side startled him. His hands trembled as suddenly a small plate was pushed into them, and for a moment he simply stared at it. 

A few thin slivers of chicken lay there, and beside them three small, fat tomatoes rolled; the lieutenant nudged him on the shoulder in such generous permission, and with selfish wonder he ate what he was given. The chicken was rich, spiced and delicate, yet it was the tomatoes that enthralled him; how tangy they were, how firm and ripe and juicy and _fresh_ , how long had it been since he had eaten something fresh; he savoured every morsel of their bright, slippery flesh as they ran over his tongue. Such perverse gratitude glowed in his heart then, and almost blissfully he knelt as above him his lords feasted on, and into reverie he slipped. 

It was the lieutenant's hand upon his head that jolted him from bleary dreams. The candles burned low in their vaulted brackets upon the table as still the lords and their guests spoke amongst themselves, his knees and calves had long since numbed beneath him as they pressed into the remorseless marble, and softly the lieutenant reached for him and pulled him close. Idly, possessively the lieutenant's fingers ruffled through his hair as still amongst the guests the Maia chatted and laughed, he petted him as one might treat a mischievous dog smuggled beneath the dinner table, and how Maedhros cringed beneath such casual degradation.

Close to his thigh the lieutenant pulled him, and what squirming unease turned in Maedhros' stomach as the Maia forced his head down, forced him to rest his cheek upon his lord's thigh whilst still that hand toyed with him. It was sensual, it was nauseating; revulsion choked in his blood as for what seemed like an age the lieutenant held him there, as those invasive, humiliating little touches stung at him, until at last the lords' conversation dwindled and motions were slowly made to retire. 

Stiff and drained he stirred as the lieutenant relinquished him, and as the Moringotto and his guests arose from the table and began to drift away down the hall he ducked his head low beneath their fierce gaze. Yet what dark anxiety flared in his stomach as the lieutenant bade him rise also, and to a knot of six large, fearsome orcs still milling about the table he was led and before them made to stand.

Hungrily they eyed him, too wide were their smiles, too greedy; foreboding blossomed in his veins and the lieutenant haunted his steps as from them he shrank, only to be dragged back to them by the wrist. 

"You will accompany our guests tonight, Maitimo," the lieutenant said softly; his fingers left reddened marks ringing Maedhros' wrist. "You will go with them, and you will obey them in whatever they command of you. You will make them happy." 

The threat in the lieutenant's tone was light, but all the more cutting for it, and how Maedhros buckled to hear those words. Helpless, hurting panic closed up his throat; he couldn't go with them, he couldn't, the lieutenant had _promised_ him, it could not be true, and plaintively he spluttered, "But... but, my lord, you said... you said that I could stay with you..." 

For a long, admonishing moment the lieutenant looked at him, all the air within that vast, malevolent hall seemed to hold its breath in mockery. There was such cruel pity in the lieutenant's eyes as he smiled, as he said, "I lied." 

Horror smashed through Maedhros' guts as the lieutenant snapped a leash to his collar, betrayal stole the strength from his limbs and he could only choke as the leash was passed to a tall, thick-set orc louring nearby, who pulled it tight with a sneer. 

"Be good, Maitimo," the lieutenant said sweetly, and for the _hatred_ that roared through his heart then there is no name in the kindly tongues of the West. 

He could scarcely breathe for the pain that throbbed through his injured neck as the orcs pulled him away, feebly he stumbled in their wake as up through the fortress they led him, through cold corridors and empty, heartless halls. And with his every step how horror blossomed anew in his heart; the orcs threw open the grand doors to a suite of chambers set high within the fortress' towers, and how he ached to know what would befall him there. Because he knew, _of course he knew_ , with every footstep laid in pain he walked to his unravelling and he was utterly powerless to stop it, and that was cruelty too great to bear.   

Only a tiny squeak of dismay trilled in his throat as he was pushed towards a wide stone workbench laid stark and ugly in the middle of a sparse chamber, and the sound of the door swung shut behind him was as a toll of death within his blood. 

"Lay there," an uruk grunted at him, it gestured to the benchtop and a horrid, moist leer split its slug-like lips. "On your back." 

Utter horror surged in his blood; blank refusal staggered him, and desperately, wildly, hopelessly he looked to the uruk, he looked to all of their loutish gang and he breathed, "Please... please, don't -" 

The slap across his face sent him spinning, it rattled his teeth within their sockets and set him crumpling backwards. The edge of the bench jammed into his spine, into his ribs, he spluttered there in shock until an orc hauled upon the leash at his throat, it sent him crashing down to his knees and there he gasped, and all the orcish company stared down at him with glee. 

"Get up," the thick-lipped uruk snarled; fervour wrenched in his veins and he did, he did, he scrambled up to his feet and how he flinched as the uruk ripped his shirt clean from him; fabric tore over his spine and how awful it made him feel, the orcs' meaty fingers groped at his waistband and yanked his trousers down, and it was all that he could do to gulp back the tears that clotted in his lungs. At the orc's nod two others seized him by the shoulders, with jarring force they lifted him and slammed him down upon the benchtop; panic screeched in his veins and desperately he struggled as they grasped for his wrists, as they forced them into thick restraints and pulled his arms up above his head, he writhed and tore and keened in his misery as with such brutal strength they pinned him down, and the thick-lipped uruk sneered down at him. 

"Spread your legs," it said; he howled as a cloth gag was forced behind his teeth, he flipped and bucked in the orcs' grip and he couldn't do it, he couldn't, it was wrong, it was _obscene_ , and oh what paralysing sob of terror choked up from his lungs as the uruk stepped between his flailing legs and wrenched his thighs apart. Helpless, helpless, still though he struggled as left so awfully exposed the uruk leered down at him, saliva wetted its lips as it brought its fingers to its mouth, and at the lewdness of its expression he closed his eyes. 

Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much, maybe the lieutenant had told them to be gentle, maybe he would just wither away beneath them, frantically he thought the words, he clung to them like a prayer, but even as he thought them he knew that they were lies. For in one hideous, jerking motion two thick fingers twisted into him, and a groan of pain punched out past the gag. 

"Oooh, so warm!" the uruk exclaimed, the orcish company jeered in their mirth, and humiliation thundered through Maedhros' heart as those fingers groped inside of him, as they slid back, as push by awful, calculating, violating push they opened him up. Without care they split into him; a keen of pain hummed in his throat as too roughly the uruk thrust a third finger into him, such aching pressure radiated out through his hips that desperately he writhed to dislodge it. His thigh strained and trembled under the uruk's hand still holding his legs apart and then one of the orcs hit him, it struck him so hard across the face that his vision blurred, a miserable gurgle bubbled in his throat and then he lay still. 

It was only a matter of time, of horrible, humiliating touches; the loop of cord about the backs of his knees that hooked him open and bound him there, the aching, insistent pull of fingers up inside of him, the shame that dredged up from his stomach with every laugh, every comment, every foul thing that came crawling over their lips; it was only a matter of time before the uruk withdrew its sticky fingers from him, before it spread him wider and in one gut-wrenching spasm of pain it sheathed itself to the hilt within him. His fingers scrabbled in their bonds, his back arched helplessly as that boiling, excruciating pressure slammed up through him; a breathless groan of utmost degradation spilled from his lungs as far, far too hard the uruk wrenched out of him, and as it slammed itself back in pain exploded through his guts. 

Again and again it fucked into him; its fingers dug bruises into his thighs with the force of its grip, each thrust of its length up inside of him felt like it would split flesh from bone, like it would rupture organs; time after agonising time it rammed into him, and its company cheered it on, their words spat down upon him like hail as they laughed, jeered, hissed, _roared_ ; with a great shout of pleasure the uruk ground into him, and how he burned with the ignominy of it as he felt the hot spurt of seed deep up inside of him.

"Not bad, _luthgrinn_ ," the uruk panted to its company; pleasure dripped from its yellowed fangs as over Maedhros it loomed for a few moments, until then it withdrew, and a sigh of relief flitted through Maedhros' teeth. But short-lived and cold was his respite; pain hammered through his innards as from a groping scuffle another orc emerged. He had scarcely drawn new breath into his lungs before it stepped between his opened legs, before again there was violation, there was fresh, blossoming pain, there was his hissing intake of breath as with a long, sinuous thrust the orc tore him open, and such unbearable pressure throbbed through his abdomen that he could only choke with the force of it.

"Ach, Afdralz, you've ruined 'im," the orc growled, and rougher still it thrust into him; one hand gripped into his thigh while the other stroked too hard up his flaccid length, the brand upon his chest seared with pain and something within him seemed to wrench as that pain undid him, as degradation eroded him, something in him fluttered loose and how it longed to drift away. "Why'd we let you go first, eh? He ain't feeling no more!" 

A blow cracked across his face, the taste of metal slicked over his tongue and saliva frothed pink behind the gag as he grimaced, as the orc smashed into his guts and involuntarily he clenched down upon it, in and out of him the orc slid and how horrible it felt; each hideous stretch of muscle, each gasping split of abused skin, each abrupt jolt of repulsive, unwanted pleasure as the orc's length slid over that sensitive clutch of nerves inside of him. Harder, harder, harder the orc slammed into him, it fucked him without care for feeling or pleasure and how hideously grateful he was when at last he felt it spend itself inside of him, when at last it withdrew from him.

Lewd and weeping and open the company left him splayed, shudders racked through his chest as for a while they simply savoured him; rough hands groped over his nipples, clawed fingers teased and scraped up his length left lolling across his belly and how fervently he hated it, he squeaked and bleated behind the gag in what small protest he could muster as they tormented him, mocked him, as muscles torn open and left unable to close drooled violence and seed to the floor below. And what horrible breath hitched in his throat as yet another orc stepped between his legs, it felt like a hammer swung deep into his guts as far, far too viciously it entered him; he groaned and sobbed with the hurt of it as too roughly it pushed into tender flesh, as too hard it grabbed him by the hips, as remorselessly it drilled its length into his bowels. He twisted and plead in guttural little intakes of breath as nerves scraped raw shrieked out their discomfort, again and again and again the orc slammed into him, pain ripped up from his stomach and suddenly something inside of him seemed to shatter. 

It was almost like peace; rocking, bloated peace; it was almost like the oblivion that he craved, almost, almost. For somehow he could and he could not feel; nerves shrieked numb, muscle split dumb and drooling and he was present and he was absent, left naked and reeling amid the atrocity that engulfed him. He was and he was not; abused, abuser, victim, perpetrator, innocent, murderer; pain thudded through his guts and he was everything and he was nothing, he was everything nothing _something_ that they said that he was; they took and they took and they took until there was nothing left of himself, there was nothing left but himself, only frightened images of what they wanted him to be and he became them, he became them; an orc rutted into him in gruelling gasps of anguish and at the end of everything he abandoned himself to their fury. Slave, whore, empty, weak; he was, he _was_ , he howled it through _fëa_ and bone, he bled it into Angband's insatiable stones; weakly, whorishly he moaned as yet another orc gorged itself with his body, empty was his heart as he spread his legs, he was nothing but a slave, he knew it and he mourned it and angry, hurting tears trickled down his cheeks as still he could not be empty enough. 

"Maybe we should pierce him, eh," a voice chuckled, "get a pretty ring through his cock, make him hard, hard for us, always." Flesh parted bleeding, glistening flesh and they were talking about him, he thought, motion rocked nausea through his stomach or he thought that he thought, or maybe he dreamed it, hands gripped into thighs left sticky with fluid as something fucked into him, "would you like that, slave?" Pain spiralled up through his belly and helplessly he gasped, they were talking about him, and he should care, he should care, it was so hard to care, "oh, I think that 'e would," it was so much easier to drift away, to pretend, to fade, to crawl, pain rippled through his hips, red dripped from him open and ruined and drop by drop by shameful drop it fell, it pooled, it scabbed. "What a filthy little whore," fingers slid into him and numbly he lay, silently he sobbed and in splintered, sticky time he just wished that it would be over, he just wished that he could end. "That's disgusting" a voice sneered, "I'm not gonna fuck that, he's bleeding too much" and yet how the air came smashing out of his lungs as another orc thrust into him, pain erupted through his stomach once more and tremors quaked through exhausted muscle and weak, they sneered, weak, weak weak weak he was so fucking weak, he closed his eyes as his body was opened, gutted; he closed his eyes in sorrow and just begged for it to end. 

Faint, limp, he stirred in reeking, squelching agony, the room blurred before him as hours minutes days later or before or some hateful time in this timeless place his bonds were cut, and lifelessly he crumpled to the floor. Fluid slicked between his thighs, breath shuddered into his lungs and how he loathed it, he scarcely had the strength to whimper in his squalor as chains engulfed his wrists, as to the table he was tethered and left there to decay. The hours swum, pain corroded, he seeped his shame to the merciless stones and there was nothing but rot in his heart, rancour in his blood; he slumped against the bench as pain radiated up from his belly, he shivered and shivered and shivered as bleary, aching shock numbed him, and on its bitter tides he was washed away. 

To his cell at last some loathsome orc took him, he could scarcely bear his own weight upon his hips as it forced him to limp in its wake, with each excruciating step blood dripped to the stones behind him and how weak he was, how stupid, how empty; how he wished that he could just expire, to just flow away into nothingness, into peace. With every drop of himself left splayed across Angband's stones, every piece of him stolen and abused and wiped away how he craved it, he plead for it, but as the stones of his cell enveloped him once more into their embrace how cruel they were in their silence.

They would not let him end, they would not let him go; again and again he pushed at them, with mania shaped of pain he slammed his hands against them until his flesh swelled with trauma, until it felt like bones might break, he hurt and he hurt and they would not let him go, the chain and the stones anchored him in a world of solitude and of silence, and with all of his heart he wished to know it no more. 

For what was time but a bloated, foetid thing; it scraped him thin and listlessly he endured it. For in the gruelling days that fell before him what games they would play; games with bodies, games with knives, running games, chasing games, hunting games, and he was always the prey, always the prize, the thing to be won and conquered and broken, it was always him, always, always, always. Every touch was an endurance, every whip-mark cloven into his skin an atrocity, every aching push of flesh into yielding, broken flesh a disgrace; they gouged all dignity from him in gratuitous, ugly violence until there was nothing left but pain. 

No longer would he struggle if they came to him, if they set him to labour or to sport, no longer would he fight if they touched him, bruised him, split him apart; it would all be in vain, _it would just make it worse_ , so emptily he carried on, a hollow, drifting thing amid all of Angband's hate. 

There was nothing but exhaustion in his limbs as upon a time an armoured uruk collected him from his cell, up through the fortress it led him and numbly he wandered in its wake. It was as trudging through some vague, ephemeral haunting; a great scabbed weal groped down his inner thigh and with his every dull footstep it splintered, it cracked to reveal raw flesh below, but mute to its hurt he limped slowly onwards. For the louring walls of Angband held little emotion for him now, there was only their endless watchful malevolence, and he knew them, down to the bone he knew them, and as one accustomed to their oppression he walked blankly, resigned to their malice. 

Within their evil cradling they nursed him, they coddled him, and as a caterpillar swaddled by a corrupt chrysalis they metamorphosed him into something else; murderer, usurper, kinslayer, slave; he was everything that they said that he was, more than anything else on this earth he knew that now, he knew what he was, and for it he suffered. Maudlin thoughts clouded his mind as onwards he was led, the brand upon his chest throbbed in tiny, familiar spasms of pain, but he shrugged its discomfort away. What was it to him now mutilated with scars, scored with ugly, raised wheals of nerveless flesh that only etched him with what he was; worthless, helpless, nothing, _you are nothing_ , they clove him apart and they stitched him together and below their grip he crumbled away. 

Yet paralysing was the ache within his chest as still the brand pulsed upon it, and as he was pulled into a wide, richly-furnished workroom he staggered as a blinding flash of pain seared through him. With the manic focus of a drunkard he stared into the room, the uruk once leading him gently now dragged him forwards by the arm as his sight fixed upon the two creatures in Angband who yet wielded terror, and before them he sunk to his knees in fear. 

For cold and restless was the lieutenant as he stood beside his master, his face was grave and his shoulders stiff, and as the Moringotto turned to the flickering fireplace set into the rear of the room the flames burned low amongst the coals, they hunkered down as the lord's wrath passed over them. Heedless was Maedhros of the terse words that passed between lieutenant and lord then, he cared not for their meaning as such abject terror quaked through him, and upon his knees he swayed in gaping, insensate dismay as before him his captors spoke. 

 _"Great hosts march upon distant shores,"_ the Moringotto mused, and dark were his eyes as he stared into the shrivelling flames. _"The Helcaraxë groans with the weight of them; you should be deaf not to hear it. The tramp of their feet splinters ice, and the news of their passing howls with fell voice upon the wind."_

"But know you their numbers, my lord," the lieutenant asked softly, urgently. "Glean you their purpose in such travel?" 

 _"To that my sight is clouded, by the treachery of Doom."_ Ponderously then the Moringotto sighed, and menace thickened in the static air as to Maedhros then he turned. _"Yet here kneels he who Doom defies."_

"There is nothing left of him, my lord," the lieutenant sighed, and exasperation curled the edge of his lips. "Look not to him for answers." 

The Moringotto's gaze upon Maedhros' bowed shoulders was unbearable; the Silmarils blazed down upon him and how they drenched him in his sins, they blistered upon his skin as there he trembled, and a look of such revulsion curled the Moringotto's features that the uruk who held him captive hastily retreated towards the door. 

 _"You, wretch,"_ the Moringotto breathed; and in his voice there was terror; power and tyranny and rage, such deep, unfathomable rage that before it Maedhros quailed. _"What plans have your brothers laid? What vengeance is this that they have wrought, what do they plot with your filthy kindred abroad?"_  

"My... my kindred..." Maedhros gasped; the words lurched over his lips and how foreign they sounded, how alien, he could scarcely breathe for the pain that radiated through his chest, that seemed to throttle the air from his lungs. But the lord must be mistaken, he thought in his horror, he must be mistaken, he didn't have any kindred, he didn't have anyone, they had taken them all away, and - 

 _"What foul plans have you hatched?"_ the Moringotto demanded; his eyes burned like wrathful coals and from them Maedhros flinched. _"What means this treachery?"_

"T-treachery...?" Helpless tears prickled in his eyes; pain seethed through his chest and he didn't know what the lords wanted, he didn't know what had happened, _he didn't know_ ; his mouth opened in some half-formed protestation of innocence but somehow even that effort proved a struggle. The words snared with barbs into his throat and there they hooked, wide-eyed and mute he stared at the Moringotto, and he could not find it in himself to reply. 

Agony erupted in his stomach like an axe cloven through his innards and with it he convulsed; a wild, scraping breath whooped out of his lungs and desperately he clung to himself, his fingers pressed white into his stomach as bile shuddered up his throat, as something in him suddenly unlocked and piteously he wailed, " _I don't know!"_

Black disdain marred the Moringotto's features, the Silmarils glimmered down upon him and in their sacred, condemning light he sobbed; harsh, racking breaths scraped into his lungs as he gasped, "I don't... I don't know, my lord... I... I t-told you already..." 

Desperately, wildly he looked to the lieutenant, he looked to the sole being in Angband who had ever once shown him clemency and how he begged for a reprieve once more, one small scrap of favour to yet ease this hurt. But grim was the lieutenant's face as he stood beside his lord, and at it Maedhros' blood ran cold. 

"I d-don't know..." he sobbed, hysterically he spluttered, "I t-told you _everything_ , I - " 

The impact of the Moringotto's boot slammed into his ribs shook the words from his lips; in a great hissing cough he crumpled, he fell, he slammed down upon the stones and there he lay, and above him the lords' eyes were pitiless. 

 _"Get this miserable cur out of my sight,"_ the Moringotto snarled; boiling puissance hurled through the air and at it the lieutenant's eyes flared wide, though with what fey emotion Maedhros did not have the heart to fathom. _"Take him, and put him somewhere that I will never have to see his wretched face again."_  

With that fatal pronouncement left ringing about the walls the Moringotto stormed from the room, and grievously Maedhros shied away from the lord's passage. He simply huddled into himself as for a moment the lieutenant stood, as solemn eyes regarded him, before the Maia strode forwards and took up a firm hold upon the leash that dangled from is collar. With a sharp tug the lieutenant drew him upwards and pulled him towards the door, and mutely Maedhros followed in his wake. The aftershocks of pain thrummed through him in numbing little waves, and hurriedly he limped in the lieutenant's shadow as onwards and up through the fortress they strode, into strange, unfamiliar corridors full of shadows and leering, macabre statues.

The wound between his thighs puckered and itched with his stride as he struggled to keep pace with the lieutenant, but how swiftly his efforts exhausted him; shock and stress flowed like lead in his veins and as they marched a relentless pace up through the fortress truly then he began to lag. Yet haughty was the lieutenant's bearing, stiff and terse was his pace beyond anything that Maedhros had known before, and at that he grew afraid. For at a barred door set into a high turret of the fortress the lieutenant halted him; puissance crackled through the air and at the Maia's sharp word of power the lock fell away, and as the door swung open upon its hinges Maedhros froze in terror.

For beyond it lay space; air and sky and looming mountains towered up above him and how they frightened him, they were so huge, they were wrong, they reeled open in their endless width and he could but gulp in fear as the lieutenant tugged him through the doorway. 

A buffet of icy wind tore at him, the howl of it sliced through his thin tunic, it felt like blades pushed beneath his skin, and he gasped with the shock of it. Frost prickled across his face and hard he shuddered as his bare feet trod upon freezing rock; everything was so big, so bitter, so open, he felt so horribly exposed and as the lieutenant dragged him forwards how desperately he wished to go back, to go back to his cell and simply hide himself away, away from that empty, howling space and the cold that seeped through his bones. 

For though his long captivity within Angband's walls had dulled him he was not yet senseless, he was not yet senile; this excursion was new, it was different and it was _terrifying_ , and in his quivering footsteps doom stepped heavy as on into the raging wind the lieutenant pulled him. How his heart beat in his chest as by narrow, crumbling stairways they ascended into the mountains; he slipped and stumbled over frost-slick rocks yet readily the lieutenant held him up, with pressure placed upon his collar and a steadying hand grasped about his arm the lieutenant lifted him when he should falter, and unease squirmed in his belly to feel the biting tightness of his grip. 

Yet as they walked on the cold numbed him, it ate him away, his teeth chattered so hard it felt that they might break as the chill gnawed at his flesh, it dampened what terror fired his blood and it made him docile, it deadened his thoughts and it made him stupid.

Across the lip of a treacherous ravine they edged and dumbly he stared down into its abyss, a sheer drop of hundreds of metres scraping down the mountainside and away into the air. _Jump_ , some crazed compulsion within him urged, _jump, jump, end_ , and yet he could not; near catatonic with the cold he reeled towards that empty lurch of air, he gaped at it, he _craved_ it, but as the lieutenant yanked hard upon his collar obediently he staggered away. 

Numb and exhausted he strayed where he was led, his head swum as onwards the lieutenant forced him, his eyes blurred with frost and tears as the wind carved through him, and helplessly he shivered when at last the lieutenant pulled him out onto a small promontory of rock jutting out from the mountain's cruel slope. 

With glazed, unfocused eyes he slumped back against the stark cliff-side; his lips trembled with a bluish tinge as suddenly the lieutenant unclipped the leash from his collar and tucked it away amid his robes. And how he flinched with the shock of it as with a great surge of puissance the collar at his neck fell away; metal sheared and its weight was lifted from him, and all that he could do was tremble with fatigue as for a long moment the lieutenant looked down upon him. 

What emotion played in those capricious eyes he could not discern, he did not ever want to discern as hard up against the wall the lieutenant pushed him, the Maia's boots crunched upon the shale as fingers like steel clamped about his right wrist, and effortlessly the lieutenant lifted his arm up above his head. It was only as something snapped shut about his wrist that he mustered himself from chilblained inertia; freezing iron bit into his flesh and it hurt so much to raise his head, his fingers shook numb as he flexed them within this new bond, as in slow, aching confusion he blinked. 

It could not be real, he thought, the words rolled like congealing blood through his mind, thick and honeyed and poisonous. It could not be real, it could not be real, and yet it was; hard stones scraped into the ridged flesh of his back, bitter cold leached into his bones and no matter how he might twist he could not free his wrist, he jerked and scratched and keened like some pitiful animal caught in a hunter's snare until exhausted he fell limp. It could not be real, it was just a trick, surely; some horrible game played out at his expense and how they would laugh at him, how their mirth would flay him alive and how much he would deserve it, he nodded and smiled and performed just like the good, obedient slave that he was, and it was only a game, it was only a game, but at the sober expression that clouded the lieutenant's face his heart crumbled to ash within his chest. 

The wind howled in the gulf between them. It seemed like fathoms; his breath billowed in frantic little gasps before him, it scattered amid the hate in the mountains, the hate in the stones, the hate in cells and chains and whips and blood, and the grave expression in the lieutenant's eyes clove him in two. 

It was different this time, it was different, it wasn't a game and how _viscerally_ he knew it; tears tracked silently down his tears as against the shale he cowered, his arm crooked awkwardly above his head and he shivered so hard that he ached with the force of it.

It took so much strength to lift his face, to gather his breath, to stop his chin from crinkling as hoarsely, helplessly he croaked, "Please, my lord..." 

A wince crossed the lieutenant's face, only for a moment, just for one small moment he looked as though he were about to speak; his shoulders rose in the anticipation of movement, but then he stood still. Snow eddied about his boots, it ruffled through his hair, and so kind was his voice when at last it came, so soft, so bitterly cruel as he said, "No."

And in that final, gutting moment all that Maedhros could do was weep as away from him the lieutenant walked. He crumpled back against the remorseless shale as grief settled like a leaden weight in his stomach; his breath burned in his throat as helplessly he sobbed, cold numbed the strength from his limbs as frantically, hopelessly he tugged against the band of iron that grasped him, he twisted within it until down to the bone he bore bruises, and oh what a _shriek_ tore from his lungs as the promontory beneath him collapsed. 

Agony seared through his arm and shoulder; something tore, something popped, in a scrabble of rock and shocked, shaking limbs how weakly he sought to right himself; a hideous lurch of the fall and then a stop, a scream, and pain. Pain burned beneath the band caught tight about his wrist as below it he hung with the full weight of his body, and the force of the wind slammed his back into the cliff-side. Desperately he fought to breathe, air burst in hysterical little pants through his lungs, tears clotted in his throat as the shock of that impact stunned him, and like a broken, crippled thing it left him there spinning out above oblivion. 

To suffer, to suffer; pain coursed through him and he could but close his eyes to meet it. Exhaustion and stress stole what tiny strength was left in his blood and dashed it against the mountainside to die. Silent tears blistered on his cheeks; harsh, struggling breaths clove through his lungs, and as far above him the churning clouds parted to reveal the glimmering stars beyond they illumined him only in hate. 

The hate in the stones, the hate in his body; the abuses of flesh and the cruelty of wills, the arrogance of words and the abhorrence of deeds, agony gouged burning and bright through wetted eyes as he closed his heart to the world. All of these things, all of the things that he had done, all of the things that were done to him; they took and they took and they spewed out ruin in their wake, they mangled him until there was nothing left that he knew of himself, and as he hung in misery amid that abyssal gulf of air, this evil he hated the most.   

All of these things, all of these ugly things, he had endured them and he was become them, and below them there was nothing but grief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

_It's been a long, hard road, but here we are at the end. And if you've made it this far, then I just want to say thank you for your efforts and all of your support along the way - whether by comment or kudos or conversation, this fic would not have been written without you, so thank you very much. And I sincerely hope that you have enjoyed all of the effort that I have poured out into this story. It was challenging to write - it deals with horrible themes and the darkest depths of nature, but somehow also it was worthwhile to write it, for me at least. It was an exploration of those dark things, a dissection of their tragedy, and it was a story that didn't have to have a happy ending. Somehow, that was quite liberating to write._

_Anyway, I digress. For you, dear reader, I only hope that you have found something in this story that might resonate with you, or that brought you enough compulsion to keep on reading even when the times got tough. If you wish to dive further into my various thoughts and stories about Maedhros then I would suggest you have a glance at my older fic,[Open Wounds](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1818529/chapters/3905101), which deals with Maedhros' recovery after his rescue from the Thangorodrim. It was written a few years prior to An Evil Cradling, but my headcanons have changed little since then, and you may find that the narrative threads hold strong even through the time between them! _

_And otherwise, if you have questions, comments, concerns, or just incoherent yelling about this fic then please please get in touch! I will try to respond to all comments placed here on AO3 as soon as can be done, but my main lair of evil is at[markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask), where I will be delighted to hear from you :) _

_So for now I fear that it is farewell. I don't really have any writing plans immediately (suggestions are always welcome!) but though I say goodbye for now it shall not be the end of me._

_Yours sincerely, theeventualwinner_


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